




















































V 












“Oh, sir, we didn’t know you were a friend of Maggie’s.” 

p. 100. 




THE WAY OHE LOOKS AT IT. 







BY THE AUTHOR OP 

^^RUTH ALLERTON,” ‘‘CHRISTMAS AVITH THE BOYS/’ “BARLEY 

loaves/’ “half-a-dozen boys,” “half-a-dozen 

GIRLS,” ETC. 



PHILADELPHIA : 

AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION, 
No. 1122 Chestnut Street. 


New York : Nos. 8 and 10 Bible House, Astob Place. 

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Sandy Cameron. 


CHAPTEE L 

THE VENNEL MONK. 

N a quiet lane of the city of Ed- 
inburgh belonging to that por- 
tion known as the Old Town 
stands a plain-looking church. 
Perhaps I should say ‘‘ stood rather 
than ‘‘ stands/’ for even so long ago as 
the date at which my story begins it 
was an old church, unvisited, perhaps 
unknown, by the fashionable class of 
society. It may, therefore, by this time, 
have given place to a more modern 
structure, and have its only existence 
in the memory of a past generation of 



8 


SANDY CAMERON. 


boys. One might have passed again 
and again by daylight the gray stone 
building, with its receding portico and 
massive pillars, without noticing any- 
thing to distinguish it from several other 
old churches in the city, but at night 
even a stranger would have been spell- 
bound by the peculiar appearance which 
gave it notoriety with all the boys and 
many of the grown people in that 
neighbourhood. 

On a certain evening, so long ago that 
I need not specify the month or the 
year, a group of youngsters stood op- 
posite the church, gazing with awe-struck 
faces at the stone wall between two of 
the columns. One of the party nudged 
his nearest companion, whispering, as if 
afraid of the sound of his own voice : 

“ D’ye see it, Sandy ? D’ye see the 
auld monk stannin’ there wi’ his heid 
bowed as if he was prayin’ ?” 

‘‘Ay, Sandy,” added another, the 
tallest of the group, ‘‘ ye see it yoursel’ 


THE VENNEL MONK. 


9 


noo, and ye maun ken that it was na 
fulin’ ye we were when we told you 
aboot it.’’ 

The boy thus addressed made no an- 
swer, but took a step forward and fixed 
his gaze intently upon the church wall.. 
There, as plainly as the pillars them- 
selves, he could see the stooping form of 
the monk, the cowl over his head — why, 
it even seemed to him as if he moved. 
Little Donald Graham stood just behind 
his friend, and cried, in an imploring 
tone : 

•‘‘Oh, dinna stan’ there speerin’ ony 
longer. Suppose he should take a fancy 
to catch us? You can rin fast, to be 
sure, but could you get away frae him, 
d’ ye think ? Come, Sandy, let’s be go- 
ing home.” 

Donald clutched the sleeve of Sandy’s 
jacket, and tried to draw him away, and 
perhaps Sandy would have yielded had 
not a mocking laugh from the other boys 
reached his ear at the same moment and 


10 


SANDY CAMERON. 


stimulated his fainting courage. He 
shook off the trembling fingers, saying, 
Nay, nay, my laddie ; I came to get 
a sight of the vennel monk, and I’ll not 
go till I pull off that auld cowl he wears 
and see what he looks like.” 

Then, without waiting to hear Donald’s 
terrified protest or the astonished excla- 
mations of the other boys, Sandy darted 
across the lane, and in less than a mo- 
ment was seen standing directly in front 
of the white-robed monk, or rather right 
in the midst of him, while with both 
hands he cautiously felt the stones, as -if 
to make sure that no substantial object 
was between himself and them. The 
little group opposite waited almost 
breathlessly the result of their com- 
panion’s daring venture. Donald was 
shaking with fear, while his elder brother 
Davy and his cousin Day Mackay, who 
would not for the best-bladed knife that 
could be bought in town have imitated 
Sandy’s bold deed, were trying hard to 


THE VENNEL MONK. 


11 


laugh and appear indifferent about the 
matter. 

Hurrah called the clear voice of 
Sandy ; ‘‘ let’s give three cheers for the 
vennel monk;” and failing to gain the 
desired response^ he gave them himself 
right lustily. ‘‘ Come over,” he cried, 
‘‘ and see the auld monk for yourselves ; 
he’s thin wi’ long fastin’, and cannot 
harm ye.” 

Davy and Hay would gladly have 
turned toward home without another 
word, but the dread of being thought 
cowardly prevented this ; and taking the 
now courageous Donald by the hand, they 
crossed the lane, and entered the space 
seldom trodden by human feet after 
nightfall, the niche of the vennel monk. 
Little Donald passed his fat hands over 
the stones where the monk had been 
visible, and laughed loudly to think how 
brave he was. 

‘‘ The verra thocht o’ bein’ feared o’ a 
stane wa’ !” said he. Perhaps Donald is 


12 


SANDY CAMERON. 


not the only boy in the world ready to 
ridicule a danger which somebody else 
has overcome for him. 

The little group stood for some mo- 
ments on the church steps, studying the 
cause of the mystery which had suddenly 
ceased to be a terror. It was a simple 
matter, after all. A large lamp attached 
to the corner of a house nearly opposite 
the church shone upon the wall between 
the pillars in such a manner as to form 
a distinct outline, which a little imagina- 
tion only was needed to decide upon as 
that of a stooping monk. Of course 
the appearance was as punctual as the 
lighting of the lamp, and so it became 
a permanent object of dread in that 
neighbourhood. 

From that night Sandy Cameron was a 
hero among his comrades, and boys much 
older than himself treated him with 
marked respect, and to all who heard 
the story the vennel monk ever after- 
ward seemed like the elephant skins 


THE VENNEL MONK. 


13 


stuffed with straw once set up in battle 
array by a certain sharp-witted queen to 
frighten her enemies away. 

Quiet little Sandy went home that 
night and stole away to his bed without 
saying a word of- the evening’s exploit ; 
but when his mother, hearing his foot- 
step, came, as was her custom, to tuck 
the bed-clothes around her boy, he could 
not help telling her the story of his 
bravery. 

He could not see the smile that lit up 
her care-worn features as she listened, 
nor guess the motherly pride that stir- 
red her heart as she stooped over the 
bed to give her boy his good-night kiss, 
for all the comment she made when the 
story was ended was : ‘‘ Ay, Sandy, it’s 
all in the way one looks at it.” 

2 


CHAPTER II. 


MOTHERS S LITTLE MAN. 

T was Saturday night. The sun 
was going down behind Corstor- 
phine hill, and the last glimmer 
stole lovingly along the old castle 
wall with the freedom of long acquaint- 
anceship. No engine-whistle broke the 
stillness of the city, now preparing for 
its Sabbath rest. The lamplighters 
were going their rounds, and the shop 
windows were beginning to look bright 
and cheerful, as an elderly woman with 
her little boy started out to do the ne- 
cessary shopping for the family require- 
ments on the coming day. ‘‘Hurry up, 
my man! If the basket is too heavy 
for your arm, let me carry it a while.’’ 
It was Mrs. Cameron who spoke, and 
it was our young hero, Sandy, who 

14 



mothek’s little man. 


15 


quickly answered : “ No, indeed, mother ; 
do ye call me your man, and think I’m 
not able to carry the basket for you?” 
The voice in which this question was 
asked was important enough to have 
belonged to the mayor himself, for the 
greatest dignity that could come to 
Sandy Cameron was his when he heard 
his mother’s voice pronounce him her 
“man.” He would willingly have 
trudged to the other end of the town 
with the basket on his arm for the sake 
of that honour. To tell the truth, it 
was not a heavy load ; a few ounces of 
tea, a loaf of bread, a small piece of 
meat, and some potatoes, with two or 
three cookies by way of a treat for 
Sandy, w^e all the basket contained. 
Anybody who passed the two on their 
way home might have been amused at 
the important air of the eight-year- old 
lad strutting along by his mother’s side, 
enjoying the thought that he was bear- 
ing her burdens and protecting her 


16 


SANDY CAMEKON. 


from all danger. When they reached 
home, Sandy opened the door for his 
mother, set down his basket in the hall, 
and untied the old shawl which he had 
worn around him in place of an over- 
coat. This and his cap he hung on a 
peg, and then sat down in his little chair 
by the fire to see pictures in the coals, 
and build his beautiful air-castles of 
growing to be a man and working hard 
till he became so rich that he could buy 
a house for his mother as fine as any in 
the town, and silk dresses too, and bon- 
nets and cloaks, such as the ladies wore 
who rode about in their carriages look- 
ing so grand and happy. The small 
round face began to glow with excite- 
ment as, sitting there in the ’fire-light, 
its owner had all these visions pass be- 
fore his mind as vividly as if they were 
reality. Unconsciously, Sandy began to 
whistle a merry tune, and his brown 
eyes grew larger and brighter as they 
gazed upon these beautiful things all 


mother’s little man. 


17 


pictured before him in the fantastic 
shapes of the coal. He might have got 
so far as to see his mother reigning as 
queen of England, and himself acting 
as her prime minister, if an interrup- 
tion had not occurred. The door was 
opened and shut with a bang, and a 
man’s heavy tread fell upon the floor. 
Sandy did not need to look up to know 
that his father had come in, and that 
the evening’s pleasure was at an end. 

‘‘ Move out of that corner, child, and 
let me get near the fire. Where’s your 
mother? There! get me my slippers, 
can’t you ? and don’t stand staring at me 
in that stupid way.” 

It was so hard to come out of the ' 
happy land of fancy into the cheerless 
one of reality that poor Sandy did in- 
deed look very stupid. He had upset his 
little chair in his haste to get out of his 
father’s way, and the merry whistle had 
been checked on his lips so abruptly 
that no words came readily to take its 

2 * B 


18 


SANDY CAMERON. 


place. He brought the slippers, put 
away his father’s boots and overcoat, 
and then opened the door that led to the 
kitchen, where his mother was busy, 
and found voice to say, briefly : “ Father’s 
come, and wants you.” 

Mrs. Cameron obeyed the call at 
once ; and as she had no need to inquire 
about her husband’s wishes, she quietly 
handed his pipe from the shelf where it 
was kept, brought a lamp and set it on 
the table, and then proceeded to mix the 
tumbler of toddy which he always took 
before going to bed. He swallowed the 
contents of the glass at once, and bade 
his wife fill it again. ‘‘ Don’t put so 
much water in ; you spoil it,” said he. 

‘‘ Ah, Kichard !” she replied, in a sad 
tone that touched Sandy’s heart, though 
it did not his father’s, “if you take 
another glass, you will want still an- 
other, and you will not leave it until the 
bottle is empty.” 

“What of that?” asked the man. 


mother’s little man. 19 

crossly. can get more easily 

enough; weVe not so poor but that I 
can indulge in a drop o’ toddy now and 
then, I hope ; and if we are, I’ll drink 
the more to drown trouble. Why, 
woman, what with the loss of work and 
that sad look on your face whenever I 
come iiTthe house, it’s little pleasure I 
find; and surely you need not grudge 
me the only comfort I have.” 

^‘Comfort!” repeated Mrs. Cameron, 
and there was a depth of meaning in the 
tone in which the single word was 
uttered. Then, after a pause, she said, 
speaking more to herself than to her 
husband : “ It’s all in the way one looks 
at it.” 

Sandy, sitting all this time unobserved 
in a shadowed corner of the room, had 
heard the brief conversation. When 
his mother said these words, he remem- 
bered that she had made the same com- 
ment a few nights before when he had 
told her the story of the vennel monk. 


20 


SANDY CAMERON. 


He understood the meaning of them 
then, but in the present application they 
puzzled him. His father had called his 
glass of toddy a comfort. That was 
plain enough, and what other way of 
looking at it could there be ? This won- 
der, once started in the boy’s mind, re- 
mained there, and furnished food for 
thought a long time after his mother had 
tucked him in for the night, and during 
his lonely walks to and from school. 

Such questions started in the minds of 
little folks are wont to take root and 
grow like Jack’s famous bean-stalk, and 
older ones never suspect what is going on 
behind the active eyes and ears until 
some odd, wise speech like a sprout of 
the bean vine comes out of the child’s 
mouth and shows what the root must be. 
But Sandy came to know that the 
whisky-bottle was filled oftener than 
the market-basket, and that the patient, 
sorrowful look in his mother’s face which 
he could not bear to see was sure to 


mother's little man. 


21 


come whenever his father asked for his 
glass of toddy. 

It is vexatious to go back in a story, 
just as it is to begin and work out a long 
sum when you know the answer already, 
but then you can’t really understand 
the sum or the story unless you are will- 
ing to go patiently step by step. I 
want you to be well acquainted with 
Sandy Cameron, and for that purpose 
you must learn all that concerned him, 
even before the date at which this story 
begins. 

Though the little boy lived with his 
father and mother alone in the old 
house, it had not been so always. He 
was the youngest of a large family. 
Two brothers were grown up and mar- 
ried, and had homes of their own in 
Edinburgh. One sister had married 
and come to America, and another was 
a wealthy widow in London. Another 
brother and sister had died before Sandy 
was old enough to remember them, but 


22 


SANDY CAMERON. 


often on Sunday afternoons his mother 
would take two pictures from a little box 
that stood on the table beside her Bible 
and was always locked, and show them 
to him, and tell him of things Jack and 
Jessie used to do and say when they 
were of his age. Thus the family was 
scattered by marriage and death, and 
out of all the number Mrs. Cameron had 
only her youngest left to go with her to 
market and to church, to run on errands 
for her and comfort her when she was 
lonely — in short, to be her ‘‘little man.’’ 

Mr. Cameron was a tailor by trade. 
In former years he had worked steadily, 
and had provided every comfort for his 
family. Now, however, he was often 
out of work, and just as often cross and 
unreasonable with his wife and Sandy. 
In these moods his wife was careful 
never to contradict him or vex him in 
any way ; but the child, ignorant of the 
cause of his father’s angry feelings, 
would argue with him in a wise little 


MOTHER S LITTLE MAN. 


23 


way that he had, yet always with such 
deference that the father never got of- 
fended, and was often won to gentler 
thoughts. 

One night Sandy went early to bed 
that his mother might have his trousers, 
which needed patching on both knees. 
He lay awake for a time thinking how 
good and kind his mother was, and won- 
dering if all mothers were as good as 
she, and at last fell asleep to dream 
that the great work-basket, which 
at that very moment stood on the table 
in the other room piled up with stock- 
ings to be mended, had turned into a 
golden chariot with lovely white birds 
harnessed to it, and that he and his 
mother, comfortably seated inside, were 
being wafted away to the moon. 

From this absurd but very pleasant 
vision Sandy was aroused by a sudden 
heavy thud, and he awoke with the im- 
pression that there must be an earth- 
quake. He had been learning in his 


24 


SANDY CAMERON. 


geography that very morning about 
earthquakes, and had seen the picture of 
one, where the people were all running 
away from an ugly opening in the 
ground ; so the noise naturally recalled 
the lesson to his mind. He sat up in 
bed and listened. The same noise came 
again. It was not an earthquake, but 
his father’s hand striking heavily on the 
table in the sitting-room. Then he 
heard sharp, cruel words uttered in a 
thick, unsteady voice, and he understood 
then, poor little boy ! that something 
different from an earthquake, but quite 
as bad, was tearing up the very founda- 
tions of his home and breaking his 
mother’s heart. Too well he knew 
whose voice it was that uttered those 
dreadful words, and to whom they were 
addressed. There were no more dreams 
for him that night of white birds waft- 
ing him and the one he loved best away 
from their troubles, although there did 
come to his mind a Bible verse which 


MOTHER'S LITTLE MAN. 


25 


lie often read : ‘‘ Oh, that I had wings 
like a dove ! for then would I fly away, 
and be at rest.” 

The excited tones of the drunken man 
terrified Sandy. What could he be scold- 
ing his mother so for? Would he strike 
her? If he were only big and strong, 
like Samson, or even like his oldest 
brother Robert, how quickly he would 
rush to the room and protect her ! One 
thing he could do, and that was to pray. 
Out of bed jumped little Sandy, and on 
the bare floor he knelt. He could not 
pray in a whisper; somehow his thoughts 
seemed too loud for that, and in distinct 
and simple words Jie begged his Father 
in heaven to be merciful to his father 
upon earth, to make him a good man, 
and not to let him trouble his dear 
mother and make her cry any more, 
and to please not let him have any 
more money to buy whisky. These 
petitions and many more were offered 
up most fervently, and Sandy’s thoughts 


26 


SANDY CAMERON. 


were so absorbed in what he was saying 
that he did not notice at all how quiet 
the house had suddenly become, but 
went on and on asking God for that 
which he wanted, and putting the name 
of Jesus after almost every request. By 
and by a deep groan close beside him 
startled the boy, and he jumped from 
his knees. There stood the very person 
for whom he had been praying, his 
father. ‘‘Don’t be angry, father,” he 
said, going near him. He received no 
answer for a moment. Evidently the 
paroxysm of noisy rage had passed off. 
Presently the man’s voice, still husky, 
but from a different cause, said : “ Wee 
Sandy, kneel down there and say that 
prayer over again, and I will kneel be- 
side ye and say ‘ Amen.’” 

Sandy knelt with great joy, for he 
knew then that God was beginning al- 
ready to answer him, and he prayed 
more earnestly and tenderly than before 
for a blessing on his father. 


mother’s little man. 


27 


It was far into the night when Sandy 
and his father parted. They had passed 
hours together of prayer and commun- 
ing which neither of them ever forgot. 
I wish I could say that it was the turn- 
ing-point of Mr. Cameron’s life, and 
that he never again touched the poison 
which had wrought so much ill to him- 
self and his family. I cannot do that, 
alas ! but I can say that he never again 
became so influenced by it as to treat 
his wife unkindly, and that often, when 
he took his hat from the peg, intending 
to spend an hour at the tavern, Sandy’s 
arm thrown around his neck and his 
whispered “Think of our prayer, father,” 
would change his purpose, and instead of 
an hour and all his ready money spent at 
the tavern, he would sit down with his 
wife and child, telling bits of the day’s 
news to the one and a fairy tale or a re- 
membrance of his own boyhood to the 
other : thus giving joy instead of sorrow 
to those who loved him best. 


CHAPTER III. 


THE PICTURE ON THE SLATE. 

WELVE years of Sandy Came- 
ron’s life had passed along qui- 
etly enough. The only events 
that stood out in his memory as 
of great importance were the gaining of 
his precious “ Robinson Crusoe ” as a 
school prize and a two days’ visit to 
Leith, where he had gone with his 
mother some months before to attend 
the funeral of her only brother, his 
uncle John. At last something hap- 
pened. When Sandy came home from 
school one afternoon, he found his 
mother sitting in the kitchen with an 
open letter in her hand. He took his 
little chair, and placing it at her feet, 
sat down to wait until she was ready to 
speak to him. Sandy’s imagination had 
28 



THE PICTURE ON THE SLATE. 


29 


time to do quite a bit of castle-building 
before the letter was finished. The ink 
seemed to be pale, for his mother had to 
take off her glasses twice and wipe them 
on the corner of her apron before she 
could decipher the whole of the letter. 
At last it was finished and carefully 
placed behind the clock, to be shown to 
Mr. Cameron when he should come in. 
Sandy waited what seemed to him a long 
time for his mother to take some notice 
of his presence. After she had put the 
letter aside she stood quite still, as if 
thinking, and with a mixture of pleasure 
and perplexity in her face that only in- 
creased the boy’s curiosity. At last he 
spoke: ‘‘Are ye no gaun to tell me, 
mother, aboot yer letter? Is it news 
frae America?” 

“ No, laddie, not quite so far as that 
and as she spoke Mrs. Cameron took her 
seat again, drew Sandy to her, and be- 
gan running her fingers through his 
thick auburn curls in a way that assured 


30 


SANDY CAMEEON. 


the boy that something unusual had oc- 
curred, for his ever-busy mother never 
took time for such petting, except on 
Sunday afternoons, when he was wont to 
sit for hours with his head in her lap, 
while she played with his curls and told 
him Bible stories. 

‘‘Sandy,’’ she said, “I doubt if you 
remember your sister Annie. She was 
married and went away to London when 
you were hardly more than a baby.” 

“ Eh ! but I do, mother and Sandy 
raised his head to give a little emphatic 
nod. “ I mind well her grand husband 
that took me on his knee and offered me 
a sixpence if I would ca’ him ‘ Brother 
Henry,’ but I felt ’shamed, and jumped 
down an’ run away without saying a 
word : fule that I was to lose the chance 
o’ a sixpence in that way !” 

Mrs. Cameron smiled. “ Poor lad !” 
she said ; “ you’ve had few sixpences to 
spend in your life and she stroked his 
hair tenderly. 


THE PICTURE ON THE SLATE. 


31 


Sandy jumped up and kissed lier pale 
face. ‘‘ I did not say that to grieve you,” 
he said. “What need I care for six- 
pences, or guineas either, so long as I 
have the best mother in all Scotland ? 
But tell me now about the letter. I 
know that Mr. Carter died a good while 
ago. Has anything else happened to 
Sister Annie ?” 

“ No, nothing has happened, but your 
sister writes that the physician has bid- 
den her seek a change of air for her 
younger child, who has been ill, and has 
recommended her to spend some time 
among the Scotch hills. She will stop 
in Edinburgh a week or two for the sake 
of seeing us all, and she offers to take 
you with her for the summer jaunt if 
your father and I are willing. What 
do you think of that, my laddie?” 

Sandy^s excitement was too great for 
his head to rest quietly on his mother’s 
lap. He sprang to his feet and began to 
whistle. He jumped about the floor. 


32 


SANDY CAMERON. 


first on one foot, then on the other, and 
conducted himself for two or three min- 
utes in a manner so utterly unlike his 
usual quiet behaviour that Mrs. Cameron 
was astonished. He came to a stop at 
last, and stood still before his mother’s 
chair like a toy engine that, having been 
wound up, has run itself entirely out, 
and asked with his eyes the question he 
was not calm enough to frame with his 
lips. 

“ So you would like to go with your 
sister, eh, Sandy ?” 

Like to go !” echoed Sandy. Oh 
my !” The occasion seemed to call for a 
grander word of exclamation than the 
boy could find in all his vocabulary ; and 
in sheer despair of getting one compre- 
hensive enough to express his feelings, 
he had to come down to his accustomed 
Oh my !” Mrs. Cameron understood 
him and laughed : 

‘‘Well, we will see about it. Your 
sister undertakes to bear the expenses of 


THE PICTURE ON THE SPATE. 


33 


your journey, and all we have to do is to 
get you a nice suit of clothes. It would 
be a shame indeed if my little man had 
to miss so fine a chance o’ seein’ the 
warld for want o’ what one or twa 
poun’ ’ll buy.” 

As the words broadened into Scotch 
upon her tongue tears glistened in her 
eyes — two signs that always went together 
when Mrs. Cameron’s heart was touched. 

Not another word passed on the sub- 
ject between mother and son for days. 
Sandy skipped about as if a set of 
springs had been placed in his legs. 
Whatever he was about — tliat is, when 
out of school — he was whistling ; and 
whatever the tune might be, one set of 
words formed the invariable accompani- 
ment in his mind : ‘‘We will see about 
it.” He was not much of a talker, even 
when with boys of his own age, but 
such a grand series of events as the 
visit from his London sister and her 
children, and the probable journey to 
c 


34 


SANDY CAMERON. 


follow, could not be kept secret very 
long. As he sat at liis desk one day, 
seeming very busy with bis sums, his 
neighbour, Ray Mackay, burst into a 
smothered laugh. This drew the atten- 
tion of several boys sitting near, and all 
Ray could do was to point his finger at 
Sandy, who was working away with 
slate and pencil, but breathing very hard 
and puffing out his cheeks as if to blow 
the fire. Ray looked over his friend’s 
shoulder ; he could not believe that such 
excitement could be produced, even in 
such a studious boy as Sandy, by the 
working out of a sum. Then Ray’s 
mirth exploded in a loud He ! he ! he !” 
and before poor Sandy was fairly aroused 
from his reverie the teacher stood beside 
him holding out his liand for the slate. 
Sandy’s cheeks became redder than his 
curls, and Ray stammered out a speech 
meant to draw all the blame on himself 
and excuse his friend. But it was of no 
avail. Both boys received marks for 


THE PICTURE ON THE SLATE. 


35 


misconduct, and were kept at tlieir seats 
an hour after the other scholars were 
dismissed. The slate, the silent cause 
of all this, contained a sum half finished, 
and beneath it a rough sketch of moun- 
tain scenery, with a train of cars in the 
foreground. At the bottom of the slate 
was represented a small boy, with one 
hand pointing to the cars and with the 
other clutching the skirt of a tall woman 
with spectacles, out of whose mouth 
issued the words, ‘‘We will see about 
it.” 

When the boys were at last set at lib- 
erty, Kay, whose sorrow at being the 
means of bringing his friend into dis- 
grace had entirely overcome his merri- 
ment, tried to make amends by offering 
to lend Sandy a book of fairy tales 
which he knew he wanted to read. He 
also asked for an explanation of the 
picture, for he said that must surely be 
like Pilgrim’s Progress — “a thing that 
looked plain enoo’ at first sicht, but that 


36 


SANDY CAMERON. 


liad a nienin^ naebody could understan’ 
until it was explained.’’ 

Then Sandy told him about his sister’s 
letter and what a happy time he expect- 
ed to have when she came ; but his face 
was so grave and his voice so husky that 
his companion looked at him in real 
perplexity, and asked how a fellow 
could feel so joyful and look so glum at 
the same time. 

“ Indeed, I am glad, Ray, when I 
look ahead, but I’m nae sae joyful to- 
day at the thocht o’ bein’ disgraced in 
the sicht o’ the whole school. I dinna 
ken what mother ’ll say to it.” 

An’ is that a’ ? Hech, laddie ! 
there’s mony a thing waur than a bad 
mark at school ; and if ye fear a scoldin’, 
dinna say a word to your mother about 
it.” 

Sandy darted a surprised glance at his 
friend, and drew up his little figure with 
all the dignity he could command : 

Is it possible, Ray Mackay, that it’s 


THE PICTURE ON THE SLATE. 


37 


your voice I hear counselling me to tell 
my mother a lie ? That would be a dis- 
grace indeed that I should never get 
over as long as I lived.^^ 

Kay in his turn drew himself up, and 
his face grew hot and angry : “ A lie, 
indeed!’’ He was just advising Sandy 
for his own good, he said, and here was 
all the thanks he got. To hold one’s 
tongue was not to tell a lie; he had 
never heard even a minister .say that 
much. Perhaps Sandy was thinking to 
turn preacher himself. If so, he had 
better save his sermon for Sunday, and 
ask the loan of the pulpit at St. An- 
drew’s to deliver it in. 

You are laughing at me, Kay, and 
at the same time you are angry. I know 
you did not bid me tell a lie — you would 
not do it yoursel’ a bit sooner than I ; 
but when I go home days, I always tell 
mother aboot anything special that has 
happened, an’ so, if I said naught to- 
day aboot bein’ kept in and gettin’ the 


38 


SANDY CAMERON. 


mark, you see yoursek it would be up 
and down a lie.” 

Ray shook his head, and still looked 
angry. 

‘‘I can’t help it, then,” said Sandy, 
turning away, with a sigh. I have 
told you the way that I look at it.” 

After that there was a coolness be- 
tween the two boys. Ray, who was a 
witty fellow, took every occasion of rais- 
ing a laugh at Sandy Cameron’s ex- 
pense, and Sandy kept in his heart a 
bitter and distrustful feeling toward his 
former friend. Nevertheless, Ray felt a 
real respect for the upright boy, and 
had he been in need of either advice or 
sympathy would have gone to Sandy 
Cameron for it sooner than to any other 
of his school-mates. 


CHAPTER IV. 
SISTER ANNIE’S GIFT. 


Another week, and the list of 
guests at the London Plotel, St. 
Andrew’s Square, included tlie 
names of Mrs. Henry Carter, 
two children, and nurse. Sandy had 
spent much time previous to their arri- 
val in considering what arrangement 
his mother could possibly make of their 
few small rooms so as to accommodate 
the expected guests. At last he had it 
planned to his satisfaction, and aston- 
ished his father and mother one evening 
by gravely announcing that he thought 
he could sleep very comfortably in the 
bottom of the clothes-press. It was a 
decided relief, nevertheless, to learn that 
his sister and her family would stay at 
the hotel, but would probably spend a 


40 


SANDY CAMERON. 


part of every day at tlieir home. Un- 
less,” said Mr. Cameron, “ the contrast 
between St. Andrew’s Square and Bread 
street proves too much for our daughter 
Annie’s nerves.” He would have said 
more, because he was one of those poor 
men who foolishly bear a grudge against 
anybody who is richer and more fortu- 
nate than* themselves, and Mr. Cameron’s 
jealousy was not a particle softened in 
this cas6 by the fact that Mrs. Carter 
was his own daughter. The pleading 
look on his wife’s face silenced him for 
the time, but Sandy, being one of those 
little pitchers with big ears that we have 
all heard about, went off to bed wonder- 
ing what ailed his sister’s nerves, and if 
the disease was one that would be bene- 
fited by the change of air she was about 
to have. 

The important day .arrived upon which 
Mrs. Carter and her family were ex- 
pected. Sandy came early from school, 
and found his mother already dressed 


SISTER ANNIE S GIFT. 


41 


in her Sunday gown of some dark ma- 
terial that had been turned and cleaned 
and made over nobody knows how many 
times, but that always looked lady-like 
because its owner was so. Sandy was soon 
washed, and dressed in his best clothes 
also, though they were not the new ones 
in which he was to travel. In a matter 
of such importance Mrs. Cameron had 
thought it best to wait and consult her 
daughter’s superior judgment before 
making a purchase. 

Together they set out for the grand 
hotel in St. Andrew’s Square. The air 
with which Sandy held up his head and 
marched along by his mother’s side said 
as plainly as words to every one they 
passed : “Just see what fine people we 
are, my mother and I !” This compla- 
cent feeling subsided a little when Sandy 
found himself standing in a large room 
filled with furniture, more elegant than 
anything he had ever seen, and upon a 
carpet so rich and soft that if he could 


42 


SANDY CAMEEON. 


have taken up his feet and held them 
he would have done so, rather than that 
such incongruous things should meet as 
his heavy, well-patched boots and the 
dainty wreaths of flowers pictured on 
the floor. Then a lady came toward him 
and bent over to kiss him, saying : And 
this is my little brother Sandy, is it? 
How do you do, my dear?’’ Somehow, 
the rustle of silk, the faint smell of per- 
fume, and the glitter of rings, which 
were all that he at first realized of his 
sister, made him feel all at once very 
small and very awkward, and as he 
walked behind his mother up the stairs 
to^Mrs. Carter’s room he wondered how 
he could ever have thought that fady 
old dress of hers looked nice. When 
they reached the apartment, there stood 
a little girl of about nine years old, who 
came forward at once and put up her 
lips to Mrs. Cameron for a kiss. How 
do you do, grandmamma ?” said this self- 
possessed little lady. 


SISTER ANNIE S GIFT. 


43 


‘‘ Jessie, here is your uncle Alexander ; 
come speak to him, my dear.’’ 

Almost before her mother had spoken 
his name Sandy was aware of a mass 
of curls touching his face, while a very 
light kiss was offered, and in very delib- 
erate tones Jessie inquired: ‘‘How do 
you do, Alexander ?” 

Sandy felt exceedingly uncomfortable. 
It was very odd to have a girl come and 
kiss him ; she did not seem at all abashed, 
but that made him feel a great deal more 
so. She called him Alexander, too. 
Well, that was better than if she had 
addressed him as uncle. He knew that 
he ought to say how glad he was to see 
her, or at any rate to make some civil 
remark. But what could he say to a 
girl, and above all to a girl like that, 
with such ribbons, such manners, such 
bright black eyes that looked straight 
into his face without winking ? While 
all this passed through his mind, there 
stood Jessie gazing at him and waiting 


44 


SANDY CAMERON. 


for him to speak. He felt the colour 
mount to the very roots of his hair in 
the agonizing effort to think of some- 
thing to say. His mother’s kind voice 
at last broke the spell remarking to 
her daughter that no doubt Sandy and 
Jessie would enjoy each other’s company 
greatly after the first awkwardness was 
over, and then she called the little girl 
to her side to have a good look at her 
face and find out whom she resembled. 
Sandy drew a long breath when the 
black eyes turned from him. It seemed 
as if they must have been staring at 
him an hour; really, it was hardly a 
moment. 

Come in here, mother, and you too, 
Sandy,” Mrs. Carter said as she softly 
turned the knob of a door opening out 
of her room into a smaller one. “ Alice 
was so worn out with the journey that I 
told nurse to put her right away to bed. 
I could not make the child willing to be 
undressed until I promised to bring you 


SISTER ANNIES GIFT. 


45 


both in to see her ; she is very anxious 
to make your acquaintance.” 

There was a thin little face visible 
among the pillows, that brightened in- 
stantly as Sandy and his mother entered. 
“ You see I kept my promise, Ailsie 
darling,” said Mrs. Carter. Here is 
grandmamma, and this curly-headed 
fellow is your uncle Sandy.” Whether 
it was the different wording of the in- 
troduction or the fact that this little 
girl was ill, Sandy did not know ; but 
instead of standing shy and embarrassed, 
as he had done on meeting his other 
niece, he stepped right up to the bed, 
took the slender little hand in his, that 
never before had seemed so big and 
rough, and gave Alice a hearty kiss. 
Another pair of black eyes, but these 
were very soft and pleasant ones, gazed 
into the boy's face, and the child said : 

“ So you are Sandy.” 

‘‘Yes; and you are Alice.” 

The two children nodded and smiled 


46 


SANDY CAMERON. 


at each other, as if making a silent com- 
pact of friendship. 

“ Are you very ill, Alice ?’’ questioned 
Sandy. 

“Yes, but I’m to get better now, you 
know. The doctor told mamma that I 
only needed this trip to make me strong 
again ; but just now, Sandy, 1 feel a lit- 
tle tired. Dear mamma, fix the pillows 
better, won’t vou ?” 

Mrs. ^Carter came to the bedside and 
put the child in a more comfortable 
position. 

“And, mamma, tell Sandy to be sure 
and come again to-morrow, won’t you ?” 

“Yes, I’ll certainly come, Alice,” 
spoke Sandy for himself. 

They left Alice then, and returned to 
the other room, and the moment that he 
was on the other side of the door all 
Sandy’s diffidence returned. There 
were Jessie’s black eyes staring at him 
again. She did not speak to him, how- 
ever ; that was one good thing. The two 


SISTER ANNIE S GIFT. 


47 


children sat very quietly listening to the 
conversation of their mothers, until Airs. 
Carter made a diversion by unstrapping 
one of her trunks and taking therefrom 
two parcels. The larger of these she 
handed to Airs. Cameron, saying, I 
could not think of any present that 
would suit you better than a dress ; so I 
selected a fine French merino of your 
favourite stone colour. Is it not a lovely 
shade ?” And while Airs. Cameron was 
engaged in admiring the contents of her 
parcel, Airs. Carter passed the other to 
Sandy, and said, with a kind smile : ‘‘ I 
know so little about your tastes, my dear, 
that I am not at all sure you will be 
pleased with my choice of a gift ; but if 
you do not fancy the paint-box, perhaps 
we can change it at one of the shops for 
something else.’’ 

Sandy’s fingers trembled so that he 
got the string in all sorts of knots, and 
there is no knowing when he would 
have reached the prize that was hidden 


48 


SANDY CAMERON. 


under the various wrappings had not 
Jessie come to his aid with a pair of 
scissors. 

Boys are always so clumsy/’ said 
she. But Sandy paid no heed to her re- 
mark or her presence. Was this pre- 
cious thing really his own ? There was 
a p)aint-box, not so large nor so complete 
as this, in a shop window on Princes 
street, and Sandy had got in the habit 
of stealing a moment or two, whenever 
he was sent on an errand in that direc- 
tion, for standing in front of that win- 
dow and gazing at a treasure of whose 
possession he never dreamed as a thing 
possible. And here was a box with 
nicer colours in, better brushes — in fact, 
everything good enough for a real artist 
— and all his very own ! 

“Well,” said Mrs. Carter, “shall I 
change it?” 

Sandy sprang from his seat ; and cross- 
ing the room to where his sister sat, he 
took her hand in both his and clasped it so 



^anbij Cameron 



*• How did you know that I longed for a box of paints?” 

p. 49. 





SISTER Annie’s gift. 49 

tightly that she cried out Stop, child ! 
you are pressing that ring into my fin- 
ger.’’ 

‘‘Oh, Sister Annie,” he exclaimed, 
“ you are so good, so good ! How did you 
know that of all things in the warld I 
longed for a box of paints ? I can’t be- 
gin to thank you enoo’.” 

Sand^^’s delight had overcome his 
timidity so entirely that he no longer 
cared whether Jessie’s black eyes were 
fixed upon him or not. Perhaps he did 
not hear her laugh and say after him, in 
a whisper, “ Warld, enoo’.” 

When they rose to take leave, Mrs. 
Cameron asked : 

“ What time to-morrow, Annie, may 
we look for you and Jessie in Bread 
street? I suppose poor Ailsie will 
hardly be able to get out so soon.” 

“I fear, mother, you will have to ex- 
cuse us all until the following day,” was 
the reply. ‘‘ By that time Alice may 
feel strong enough to accompany us. 

5 D 


50 


SANDY CAMERON. 


The nurse will take charge of her, you 
know. Tell father I shall expect a call 
from him this evening ; and as for Sandy, 
he is welcome at all times.’^ 

‘‘Yes, I told Alice I would come,’’ 
was Sandy’s prompt reply, “ and as soon 
as school is over I’ll be here — that is, 
if mother is willing.” 

Happy Sandy could speak now natur- 
ally enough, and even put his heavy 
boot down in the midst of the gay flow- 
ers on the carpet without a feeling of 
remorse. What was there worth caring 
about so long as he held that precious 
paint-box in his hand ? But, alas ! at 
twelve years old emotions are as change- 
able as clouds in a summer sky. No 
delight is beyond the reach of a child, 
as no flower is so beautiful as to be safe 
from the attack of a destroying insect. 

After walking together some distance 
in silence, Sandy abruptly addressed his 
mother with the question : 

“ How rich is my sister Annie ?” 


SISTER ANNTE^S GIFT. 


51 


She has money enough to provide 
her and her children with all they want, 
my son.” 

“ I suppose she can buy a new dress 
like that she gave you every week, if 
she chooses, eh, mother?” 

“No doubt your sister wears dresses 
much more costly than this, Sandy, and 
buys a new one whenever she likes. In 
her position in life it is quite right that 
she should.” 

Mrs. Cameron looked wistfully at 
Sandy as she spoke, to discover, if she 
could, what new thoughts lay under- 
neath these questions. 

“ I wish we were rich too,” continued 
the boy, as if talking to himself. “To 
be rich means to live in a grand house 
and have servants to wait on you, a car- 
riage to ride in and nice clothes to wear. 
I mean to be rich when I’m a man.” 

“Say ‘if the Lord will,’ my Sandy. 
If he . sees that money will be guid for 
ye, my lad, nae dout ye’ll hae your 


52 


SANDY CAMERON. 


wish ; but if it be not his will, the more 
of it ye gained, the heavier curse it 
would prove. Nay, nay, Sandy, don’t 
set your heart on bein’ rich. Dinna ye 
mind the Master’s own words, laddie : 
‘ It is easier for a camel to go through a 
needle’s eye than for a rich man to enter 
into the kingdom of God ’ ? Nay, nay, 
trust my words, Sandy ; it is a sign o’ 
the Lord’s good will toward us that we 
are sae puir.” 

“Ah, mother” — and Sandy smiled, 
though he did not seem convinced — 
“you always have your ain sweet way 
o’ lookin’ at things. I wonder if I can 
ever learn to think as you do ?” 

“ The Lord grant it, laddie,” was the 
heartfelt reidy. 


CHAPTEE V. 

UNCLE AND NIECE. 

HEN Sandy next day knocked at 
the door of his sister^s room in 
the hotel, it was opened by Jes- 
sie. She pointed to a chair ; and 
when Sandy had seated himself upon it, 
she stood right before him and gazed at 
him a moment with those bright eyes of 
hers, as if trying to read his thoughts. 
Then she said : “ Mamma has gone out 
for a walk and Alice is asleep; but 
mamma told me that if you came I 
might ask you to go with me and show 
me a little of the city. Are you will- 
ing?’' 

“Certainly,” said Sandy; “but will 
it do to leave Alice here alone ?” 

“Alice won’t be alone,” replied Jessie, 
rather sharply ; “ her nurse is with her, 

5 » 53 



54 


SANDY CAMERON. 


of course. But if you do not want to 
go, you need not.’’ 

“ Oh yes, to be sure I do. I wonder 
where I had best take you ? There’s the 
Scott monument — ” 

“ I’ve seen that ; how could I help it, 
you stupid boy, when we are so near?” 

‘‘Well, then, what do you say to the 
Gardens ? or I wonder if a walk to Cal- 
ton Hill would be too much for you? 
I don’t know exactly how much girls 
can do.” 

“Oh, as for that,” said Jessie, with a 
little sneer in her voice, “ you’ll find I 
can do everything that you can, and 
maybe a little more, Mr. Sandy. But I’ll 
tell you : suppose we go and see grand- 
mamma? I want to know what sort of 
house you live in, you know.” 

“ Yes, but, Jessie — ” 

“No ‘buts’! I’ve made up my mind 
for a call on grandmamma; so just sit 
down there for a moment, while I get 
my hat.” 


UNCLE AND NIECE. 


55 


Sandy was convinced that his niece 
was one who was used to having her 
own way, so he did not offer another 
word of objection, but sat quietly wait- 
ing while she put on her hat and gloves 
and turned around before the mirror to 
make sure that her sash and curls were 
in perfect order, 

iL seemed rather pleasant to Sandy to 
be walking by the side of such a fashion- 
ably-dressed little girl, and he thought, 
if by chance they should meet one of 
his school-fellows, he should enjoy in- 
troducing her as my niece from Lon- 
don, Miss Jessie Carter.^’ His compan- 
ion’s voice presently jarred upon these re- 
flections with the remark, Sandy, what 
clumsy boots you wear ! and why didn’t 
you put on your best clothes to come to 
see us ? Why, if we were in London 
now, I should feel ashamed to be seen 
walking with such a shabby- looking fel- 
low; I should indeed;” and Miss Jes- 
sie shook her curls and tapped the toe of 


56 


SANDY CAMERON. 


her own French boot with her little par- 
asol. 

Sandy bit his lips and stepped a pace 
behind Jessie. It is of no use to try 
and tell you how he felt, because, 
unless you are a boy and have at some 
time been spoken to in such a manner 
by a girl, you could not sympathize with 
him. The little girl must have read in 
his face the effect of her words, for after 
walking a few steps in advance she 
turned and took hold of Sandy’s hand. 
‘‘I did not think you would care so 
much as all that,” she said, with an evi- 
dent intention of undoing the mischief 
she had caused. “ I don’t feel ashamed 
of you, not one bit. If we were in 
London, it would be quite different, but 
nobody knows me here, and I had as 
lief walk with you as not.” 

Sandy made no reply. He was too 
mortified to speak. His longing to be 
rich returned more forcibly than ever, 
and with it came a bitter feeling that 


UKCLE AND NIECE. 


57 


this child, so much younger than him- 
self, should look down upon him — yes, 
and it was very likely she would look 
down upon his mother too — just because 
she had better clothes than they. So it 
was in vain that thoughtless Jessie 
laughed and talked about this thing and 
that as they walked along; her com- 
panion was gloomy and silent, never 
opening his lips except to give brief 
answers to her questions or to call her 
attention to some noted building. He 
was trying up to the last moment to find 
some excuse, so as not to let her see the 
row of tenement-houses in which he 
lived ; but he could not think of one, 
and he concluded that the only way was 
to put on a bold face and pretend not to 
care what Jessie thought. They were 
her own relations, at any rate,’’ so he 
said to himself, “ and she had no busi- 
ness to be so proud.” 

‘‘This is the door,” said he, at last, 
with a great efibrt, for something seemed 


58 


SANDY CAMERON. 


rising in his throat; ^‘sit down in this 
room while I go find mother and tell 
her you are here.” Jessie glanced 
around the barely-furnished room and 
made a grimace as soon as Sandy was 
out of sight. She had decided to be 
more careful in her words, for she rather 
liked her young uncle, and did not want 
to vex him. 

“ Come out here, Jessie,” called a 
pleasant voice ; and Sandy held open the 
door for her to pass to the kitchen. 

^‘Grandmamma can’t stop her ironing 
even for you, lassie ; an’ if you’ll come 
and sit beside me here, I can talk and 
work too.” 

So Jessie put aside her airs and took the 
seat Sandy offered, watching with a good 
deal of interest the rapid motions of her 
grandmother’s hands as one garment after 
another was ironed, folded, and hung by 
the fire to air. Mrs. Cameron asked the 
child some questions about London, her 
school, and her little friends, just enough 


UNCLE AND NIECE. 


59 


to open the way for her to talk as much 
as she liked ; and the time passed very 
pleasantly to Jessie, who reported to her 
mother when she returned to the hotel 
that she and grandmamma had had a de- 
lightful conversation, quite unconscious 
that she had done all the talking her- 
self. On the way back the two children 
became more sociable. Sandy tried to 
forget the remarks which had so wound- 
ed him early in the afternoon, and Jes- 
sie kept to her resolution of being more 
careful in her words. She showed quite 
an interest, too, in what Sandy told her 
about this and that building as they 
went along. 

Here is the AVest kirk, Jessie, where 
mother and I attend. I hope you will 
go with us next Sunday. You will be 
sure to like the sermon.’’ 

“ Shall I ?” she responded, in a doubt- 
ful tone. ‘‘But I don’t like going to 
church ; and as for sermons, I can’t un- 
derstand them. AVhy, Sandy, you know 


60 


SANDY CAMERON. 


I am a little girl only nine years old. 
You can^t expect me to care about such 
things.’’ 

These words had a sound of humility 
about them that surprised Sandy. In 
all their previous conversation Jessie 
had assumed the position of one giving 
information to a person much more igno- 
rant than herself. She w^as not without 
reason ; for in her knowledge of the 
world and what is called etiquette, the 
girl of nine years was far in advance of 
the boy of twelve. 

Just as they were turning a street cor- 
ner a ragged boy came upon them so 
suddenly as to brush against Jessie’s 
parasol. He held out his hand, with a 
beseeching look into the faces of the 
two children. Sandy had nothing to 
give and Jessie had no inclination to 
“ throw money away on that sort of peo- 
ple,” as she expressed it, hereby imitat- 
ing many of her selfish elders. 

I should not like to be quite so poor 


UNCLE AND NIECE. 


61 


as that,” Sandy said, speaking more to 
himself than to his niece. 

‘‘ Like it ? Indeed, I should think 
not. Bah ! it must be horrid to be 
poor;” and Jessie shook her curls and 
began talking about something else. 

But Sandy still had in mind the 
fragment of conversation he had held 
with his mother the day before, and was 
trying to think about it as she did. He 
wanted to find out what this little butter- 
fly thought of the matter. 

Jessie,” said he, earnestly, ‘‘ do you 
understand how it can be a sign of God’s 
love when he lets people be poor?” 

No, indeed. AVhat a funny question ! 
I think it is a sign of love when he 
gives them lots of things and lets them 
have a good time. Why, don’t you ?” 
‘‘Yes, it does seem so, but then — ” 
“Oh what a stupid thing to talk 
about, Sandy ! It’s good to have plenty 
of money and it’s bad to be poor, and 
that is the end of it.” 


62 


SANDY CAMERON. 


‘‘I say, Sandy,’’ continued the little 
girl, after a thoughtful pause, ‘‘ there’s a 
story in one of my books about a boy 
that was poor and so very unhappy, 
and he prayed that he might get rich, 
so God made him rich ; and then, some- 
how — I can’t tell you the way it is 
in the book — he got into more trouble 
than ever, and wished he was poor 
again. Well, he lost all his money 
and was just as poor as ever, and then 
he was happy. I think it is a very dull 
story, there is so much preaching about 
it ; but perhaps you will like it better 
than I did. I should not wonder if 
mamma has the book in her trunk — it was 
only the other day she read me that — 
and if she has. I’ll ask her to read it to 
you. Oh, I forgot that you are such a 
big boy and can read for yourself.” 

As soon as they reached the hotel Jes- 
sie rushed toward one of the trunks and 
tried to open it. 

^‘What do want, my dear?” asked 


UNCLE AND NIECE. 


g;3 

Mrs. Carter. I can^t allow any little 
fingers to disarrange my things.’’ 

“That book, mamma, that you were 
reading to me just before we left Lon- 
don. Is it here? I want Sandy to read 
the story of the boy that grew rich, and 
then was not- satisfied until he became 
poor again. Sandy is such a droll boy, 
mamma. He thinks that if people are 
poor it is a sign that God loves them. 
That’s just what he said.” 

“ My dear little brother,” said Mrs. 
Carter, drawing Sandy to her side, “ you 
are too young to be studying such (pies- 
tions. I can’t let you see the story 
Jessie means, because the book is at home 
in London, but I will tell you one in- 
stead that may answer the same pur- 
pose. I used to know a young girl who 
sighed and '"sighed because her pretty 
white hands had no rings to adorn them, 
and she had to wear very plain clothes 
and make them last a long time. She 
thought it a great pity she could not go 


G4 


SANDY CAMEKON. 


to dancing-school and learn to play on 
the piano, and do twenty other things 
that rich girls did, but which her hard- 
working father could not afford. ‘ Ah !’ 
she would say to herself, ^ if I were 
only rich, I would be happy and make 
everybody else so. I would give to the 
poor and take sick people out to ride and 
make presents to little children. I 
would not be stingy and selfish, like 
some fine ladies I know. I would love 
God and serve him truly if only he 
would grant my wish.’ By and by, 
Sandy, God took the girl at her word. 
He gave her a good husband who loved 
her and had the means to gratify all 
her wishes. She wore rings then, and 
necklaces and fine laces, and rode in her 
own carriage.” 

“And of course she did* a great deal 
of good, mamma?” interrupted Jessie.. 

“ Ah ! that is the very point of my 
story, dear. Instead of doing good to 
others and serving God more faithfully 


UNCLE AND NIECE. 


65 


because of his gifts to her, she became 
more and more selfish and accustomed 
to think of her possessions as her very- 
own, and to be proud of them. She has 
got quite out of the way of thinking 
about the Saviour and heaven with the 
love she used to feel. I don’t know but 
that she would gladly give up all her 
wealth now, if so she could be rid of the 
distractions and temptations and heart- 
sickness it has brought her, and be again 
a little child. Ah, Sandy, ‘ it is easier 
for a camel to pass through a needle’s eye 
than for a rich man to enter into the 
kingdom of God.’ ” 

The boy started at hearing the same 
Bible words which his mother had quoted 
to him the day before, and he noticed 
then the tears gathering in his sister’s 
eyes. It must be some dear friend of 
hers she has been telling us about,” he 
thought. 

Mrs. Carter caught his look of sur- 
prise fixed on her face, and said to him, 

6 E 


66 


SANDY CAMERON. 


with much earnestness in her voice : 

Ah, Sandy, take heed to mother’s 
counsel better than I did, and do not be 
led away from your simple faith in God 
by the idea that to be rich means to be 
happy.” 

On his way home Sandy did not 
whistle. He was too busy comparing the 
opinions of his mother, sister, and niece 
on the subject uppermost in his mind, 
and wondering if he should ever get to 
see that poverty was a blessing. ‘‘ How- 
ever, it’s all in the way one looks at it,” 
said he, and entered the house just as his 
mother was placing a bowl of porridge 
on the table for his supper. 


V 


CHAPTEK yi. 

THE MONEY-BOX. 

WEEK of rare enjoyment broke 
up the quiet routine of Sandy 
Cameron^s life. There was con- 
stant visiting between the family 
in Bread street and the party at the Lon- 
don hotel ; there were walks and drives 
and sight-seeing expeditions, in all which 
our hero bore a part, for Mrs. Carter de- 
clared that she had forgotten her way 
about Edinburgh and must depend on 
Sandy for a guide. Pleasant hours were 
spent in petting little Alice and telling 
her stories, and the gentle child grew 
fond of her boy-uncle, and clapped her 
hands with pleasure when she heard his 
daily knock. The cloth had been pur- 
chased for the new suit; a pair of new 
boots stood in the corner of the bed- 

67 



68 


SANDY CAMERON. 


room, ready for the Highland journey. 
Sandy never went to bed without an af- 
fectionate look at them ; and if he were 
not too sleepy, he tried them on. And 
then there was the paint-box. The few 
pictures in his geography and history 
were soon coloured, and every bit of 
paper that Sandy found was immediately 
ornamented with some object of natural 
scenery. I am afraid this paint-box 
was the innocent cause of several missed 
lessons, and more than once its owner 
was kept in after school to make up for 
the time he had spent enjoying his new 
treasure. The teacher began to wonder 
what had come over the usually studious 
boy. He knew nothing of the paint- 
box, boots, new clothes, or hotel visits 
that were absorbing Sandy’s time and 
thoughts. 

As for Jessie, she and her young 
uncle became better friends than might 
have been expected after the decided 
impression made by her black eyes at 


THE MONEY-BOX. 


69 


their first meeting. She was a keen-witted 
child, and her gay sallies kept Sandy 
laughing till his jaws would ache from 
such unusual exercise, and more people 
than the teacher began to wonder what 
had come over him. But Jessie’s mirth 
did not expend itself on indifferent ob- 
jects. Her funny speeches were sug- 
gested by Sandy himself — his Scotch 
talk, his awkwardness, the patches on 
his well-worn clothes — and she even got 
so far as to make fun of certain little 
peculiar ways of his father and mother. 
If, at some very hard hit, Sandy’s face 
showed signs of hurt feeling, Jessie in- 
variably relented, and was sure to in- 
crease the trouble by some excuse worse 
than the original offence. Little Ailsie 
did not gain strength as fast as her 
mother had hoped, and it was therefore 
Sandy and Jessie who walked and talked 
and romped together. Each time that 
Jessie honoured the house on Bread street 
with her presence, Sandy exerted him- 


70 


SANDY CAMERON. 


self to entertain her by every means 
within his power. His Robinson Crusoe, 
the picture-book his sister in America 
had sent him, the box of dominoes given 
by his father as a New Year’s gift, his 
paint-box, and his pencil sketches, of 
which he was not a little proud, — all were 
brought out in the hope of interesting 
the little lady. But to a child accus- 
tomed to select her toys from the variety 
displayed in the London shops, and to 
cast them aside as soon as the novelty 
wore off, Sandy’s possessions seemed of 
little value. The second time she went 
to her grandmother’s she moved rest- 
lessly from room to room, and the black 
eyes glanced from corner to corner and 
from ceiling to floor in search of some- 
thing to play with. She had been too 
well taught ever to appear rude in her 
words or behaviour in the presence of 
older people, so her grandmother, not at 
all disturbed by the noise of her little 
feet, went on with her work, satisfied 


THE MONEY-BOX. 


71 


that two such good children would not 
get into mischief. 

In the course iof the afternoon a mes- 
sage was brought to Mrs. Cameron that 
a neighbour’s child was taken suddenly 
ill, and that she was needed. In a few 
moments her work was put aside and 
she was gone, leaving the two young 
people to thergselves. Jessie sat quite 
still until she thought her grandmother 
must be out of hearing, then she mount- 
ed on the table and uttered a piercing 
scream. Sandy came running from the 
kitchen, greatly alarmed : Oh, Jessie, 
are you much hurt? Did you fall? 
Tell me quick : what is the matter?” 

All the answer he received was a 
hearty laugh as the little girl jumped 
from the table and began dancing about 
the floor. Sandy stood looking at her 
in surprise ; the quiet boy could not yet 
comprehend the pranks of this wild lit- 
tle creature. When she saw how per- 
plexed he was, she came up to him, and 


72 


SANDY CAMERON. 


her eyes flashed upon him with an ex- 
pression of something very near con- 
tempt : 

‘‘ I believe boys don’t know anything — 
at least Scotch boys. You look this very 
minute as solemn as if you were getting 
punished. Why, I had to scream : can’t 
you understand ? I have been keeping 
the noise in so long that I should cer- 
tainly have burst if grandma had not 
gone just then. Come on, Sandy ; let’s, 
have some fun.” 

So saying, she seized his hands and 
swung around with him until they both 
were dizzy. 

‘‘ Now, you be quiet ; I’m going to see 
if grandma has got anything good hid 
away in here and before the boy could 
offer a word of remonstrance, she had 
opened the door of the little cupboard 
where the dishes and food of the family 
were kept, and began examining its con- 
tents. 

“ Please don’t, Jessie. I canna bear 


THE MONEY-BOX. 


73 


to see you keekin’ aboot that way. 
Why did ye no ask mother to gie ye a 
bit to eat if ye were sae hungry ?” 

‘ Keekin’ aboot ’ ! Oh how funny ! 
Go on talking, Sandy ; it makes me 
laugh, and I want to remember some of 
your words, so as to tell Katie Ball how 
they talk in Scotland. Katie Ball is a 
little girl I know in London. Won’t 
she laugh ?” 

Sandy felt vexed. He had become 
very sensitive since Jessie had made so 
much fun of his way of talking, and 
had been careful ever since that first 
day at the hotel to talk pure Eng- 
lish. Just now, however, in his anxiety 
to stop her meddling fingers from spoil- 
ing what his mother had put aside for 
supper, perhaps even^for the next day’s 
dinner, the Scotch words came most 
readily. 

Meanwhile, Jessie uncovered one dish 
after another. 

Cold meat ; I don’t want that. Po- 

7 


74 


SANDY CAMERON. 


tatoes ; bah ! Oatmeal cakes ; ugh ! And 
what is this? Cheese. Why don’t 
grandma have something good to eat 
in the house ?” and Jessie shut the door 
of the cupboard in great disgust. 

‘‘ I do wish you wouldn’t make fun 
of everything we have,” said Sandy, 
gravely. 

‘‘Well, you dear old nonsense, I 
won’t. There!” and Jessie threw her 
arms around his neck and gave him a 
regular bear’s hug. 

“ Come, sit down by the table, and let 
me read to you out of my Robinson 
Crusoe. Here’s a real interesting chap- 
ter about Friday.” 

“No, I won’t; I know Robinson 
Crusoe by heart. It’s only good for 
boys. Sandy, what’s in that little box 
up on the shelf? Do get it down and 
let me see.” 

“ That?” said Sandy, well pleased that 
anything should be esteemed by Jessie 
worthy of notice. “ That is my money- 


THE MONEY-BOX. 


75 


box. Isn’t it a nice one?” asked he, 
putting it into her hands. 

Jessie shook it : “ Is there much in it, 
do you think ?” '' 

I don’t know,” said Sandy. I have 
had it ever since I was a very little boy. 
Now and then somebody puts a penny 
in, but not very often. Mother says we 
must wait until I need something very 
badly — a cap, or maybe a pair of boots — 
and then open it. It will be a long time 
before I need the boots, though and 
Sandy gave a whistle as he thought of 
the new pair standing ready for the 
journey. 

For a wonder his companion was 
silent. For a whole minute she sat 
looking at the box without uttering a 
word; then, as if suddenly impressed 
with a new idea, she jumped up and 
rattled the box close to Sandy’s ear. 

“ I know what will be fun,” she said. 

What?” inquired Sandy, eagerly. 

“Let us open the box and count the 


76 


SANDY CAMERON. 


money, and then it will be time for me 
to go home, and you must go with me, 
of course,’’ continued the little planner. 

There’s a nice place on Princes street 
that I have been in with mamma where 
they keep cake and confectionery and all 
sorts of good things. We’ll go there — 
it’s a saloon, eating-house, or whatever 
you call it — and sit down at one of the 
tables. Then a waiter will come, and I 
will order whatever I like for us both. 
That’s the way. I’m a lady, you know, 
and the lady always chooses what she 
likes. That will be fun. What do you 
say, Sandy?” 

The boy was completely bewildered. 
Jessie talked so rapidly and proposed 
such a wild scheme, that his slower mind 
could not take in her meaning all at 
once. Conscience, well trained by a 
good mother’s careful teaching, came 
first to his aid. 

‘‘Why, Jessie,” he said, “you don’t 
think what you are saying. I have no 


THE MONEY-BOX. 


77 


right to take that money — at least, with- 
out asking mother’s consent.” 

It’s your money, isn’t it ?” inquired 
Ihe little tempter. 

Yes, but — ” 

“ And you will not need new boots for 
a long while. You will have ever so 
much more by that time, don’t you 
see ?” 

“ I don’t feel sure about that, Jessie. 
Besides, I have no idea how to open the 
box ; it is put together with tacks.” 

Ah, foolish Sandy ! to think to ward 
off the temptation by such an argument ! 
It is rank cowardice to substitute the 
question Is it possible ?” for Is it 
right ?” That is fighting the devil with 
a weak weapon indeed. “The fear of 
man that bringeth a snare ” was working 
powerfully in Sandy’s heart. Had he 
been alone, the idea of deceiving his 
mother, of using money, which in that 
humble home meant necessary food and 
clothes, for a mere selfish pleasure, would 

7 * 


78 


SANDY CAMEEON. 


have been put aside indignantly ; but 
with Jessie’s bright eyes gazing in his 
face and her scornful laugh ready to 
peal in his ear if he dared to say that 
he would not do what he thought wrong, 
what was he to do? Jessie Carter’s de- 
rision meant to him then the same as 
the They say ” of public opinion would 
mean to him twenty years later in life. 
She represented the whole world to the 
boy at that moment. We must not 
judge him too hardly that he tried to 
get round the temptation instead of 
meeting it face to face like a hero. 

‘‘Pshaw!” said Jessie. “A big boy 
like you not know how to open a box I 
Why, the bottom is as thin as can be, 
and the tacks are not in tight at all. 
If you’ll lend me a knife, I can get it 
off just as easy and without splitting it; 
and if you have a hammer, we can just 
slip the money out, and fasten the bot- 
tom in its place again, so that nobody 
will know it has been touched.” 


THE MONEY-BOX. 


79 


‘‘Yes, but anybody could tell directly 
by shaking it that it was empty.’’ 

“Very well, Sandy,” said Jessie, with 
much dignity; “it’s your money and it’s 
your box, and if you are so mean that 
you don’t want to spend it, it’s none of 
my business. I am going home now ” — 
and with a lofty air she turned toward 
the bed-room to get her hat — “and I 
think I shall not come here again.” 

Sandy was in despair : “ No, no, Jes- 
sie, please do not go ; you would lose 
your way, and then what would Sister 
Annie say to me? Wait a minute, and 
I will go with you,” 

“ No, indeed, Mr. Sandy ; you stay at 
home and watch your money-box. I 
would not let such a stingy boy walk 
with me.” So saying, the little girl 
caught up her parasol, opened the door, 
and was presently on the street with 
her face turned toward home. Sandy, 
really anxious about her, called her 
name loudly enough for others passing 


80 


SANDY CAMERON. 


by to hear, but the offended little lady 
would not turn her head. Then he 
seized his. cap and ran after her. 

Oh, Jessie,’’ he said, when he came 
up to her, ‘‘ come back with me, do ; I 
can’t bear to have you go away angry. 
I will open the box, indeed I will, and 
you shall spend the money any way you 
like, if you will only come back, and 
not be angry.” 

Jessie turned toward him, and her 
bright eyes beamed upon him with an 
expression very different from that which 
they had worn the moment before. 

We shall have to hurry,” she said 
as she placed her hand in Sandy’s and 
turned back to the house. ‘‘ Grand- 
mamma will get home before we are 
ready to go if we do not make haste, and 
that would spoil all.” 

I am sorry to tell you what happened 
next. Sandy himself has since then 
looked back with bitter self-reproach to 
the events of that afternoon. 


THE MONEY-BOX. 


81 


The money-box was opened, and its 
contents were found to be three shillings 
and sixpence — that is, nearly as much as 
one dollar of American money. Ac- 
cording to Jessie’s advice, Sandy replaced 
the bottom of the box and put it on the 
shelf, so that no one would suspect from 
its appearance that anything was amiss. 
Then away to Princes street went the chil- 
dren hand in hand, and into the hand- 
some saloon where ladies and gentleman 
sat, refreshing themselves with dainties 
or making hearty meals, the savoury 
smell of which was very agreeable to 
Sandy’s unaccustomed nose. Seated at 
the tables, Jessie gave her orders to the 
waiter with quite the air of a fine lady 
in the constant habit of being served. 
All this was very new to Sandy, and he 
looked so meek, and said ‘‘Thank-you, 
sir,” so politely to the waiter when he 
placed before him a lemon ice and a 
plate of cake, that Jessie nudged him. 

“ Don’t be so civil, you goose,” said this 

F 


82 


SANDY CAMERON. 


worldly-wise child, ‘‘or people will see 
that you are not used to it.’’ 

“ Well, that would be true ; I am not 
used to it,” said honest Sandy. 

The ices, the cake, the candy, were 
soon eaten. Jessie evidently enjoyed 
hers very much, and turned to her com- 
panion several times to inquire if these 
things were not better than all that was 
in his mother’s cupboard. ^ Sandy re- 
plied that everything was very good — far 
better than he had ever tasted before; 
but he did not dare tell Jessie what a 
lump there was in his throat, and that 
he already felt willing to go without 
food for a month, were that possible, if 
he could only have the money back in 
the box where it had been an hour pre- 
vious. He accompanied Jessie as far as 
the door of the hotel, and then turned 
homeward, dreading, as he never had 
done before, to meet his mother. He 
entered the house; no one was there. 
The table was set, the tea-pot stood on 


THE MONEY-BOX. 


83 


the stove. Evidently his mother had 
returned to make these preparations for 
liis father and himself, and had gone 
back to resume her attendance on the 
sick child. A few minutes later Mr. 
Cameron came in ; and when he learned 
the occasion of his wife’s absence, he 
bade Sandy pour out his cup of tea and 
sit down to supper with him. 

“ Where’s your appetite, my lad ? Are 
you fretting because your mother’s not 
here?” asked the father, seeing that 
Sand}^ did not touch his food. 

“ I am not hungry, father,” he replied, 
and turned his face away as he spoke. 
Had Mr. Cameron been less occupied 
with his own thoughts, he would have 
seen that in his son’s face which might 
have led to further questioning. As it 
was, he ate his meal hastily and went 
out, bidding Sandy to cheer up and put'^ 
things in order, so that his mother would 
not have that to do when she came home 
tired. ‘‘ Perhaps she will have to be 


SI SANDY CAMERON. 

away all night/’ said the boy to himself, 
“ and by that time I shall be more ready 
to meet her.” It was the common im- 
pulse of wishing to put off anything 
disagreeable. Then Sandy set himself 
to work ; he put away the food that was 
left on the table, washed the dishes, and 
swept the floor. When all was in order, 
he sat down to take counsel with himself 
concerning the afternoon’s events. Had 
he, after all, done anything so wrong ? 
The money was surely his, and he had a 
right to spend it as he pleased without 
asking anybody. That was Jessie’s way 
of looking at it. But then Conscience 
told him plainly, now that she had him 
alone, with no other voice in his ear to 
hinder his listening to her opinion, that 
Jessie’s was not the right way of look- 
ing at it. That money which had taken 
years to accumulate, and which Jessie 
and he had consumed in a few moments, 
did not really belong to him. He had 
never thought of it as his own separate 


THE MONEY-BOX. 


85 


property until the tempting words were 
spoken. And even if it had been his 
very own, had he a right to spend it in 
such a way ? The boy burst into tears. 
Should he, could he, confess the whole to 
his mother ? or might he not leave the mat- 
ter until he had started on the promised 
trip with his sister, and trust that then 
the empty box would be discovered and 
some other than himself be suspected as 
the thief? Sandy’s face reddened at 
the mere thought. Oh no; he would 
not allow himself to think again of a 
deed so unmanly. He would just climb 
to the shelf where the box stood and 
examine it once more, to see whether its 
appeararice was likely to witness against 
him. 

While his foot was on the chair and 
his box in his hand the door opened, 
and his mother entered. 

Why, lad, what are you doing with 
your money-box ? Did Sister Annie 
give you a bit money to put in ?” 


86 


SANDY CAMERON. 


Something ailed Sandy’s knees. He 
tried to step down from the chair, but 
could not for trembling. Mrs. Cameron 
came herself and took hold of the box 
to put it in its place. 

“ Hech, Sandy ! it’s empty. The 
money’s all gone, my puir laddie, an’ 
mother was depending on it to buy ye a 
bran-new carpet-bag to carry your 
clothes in on the journey. Could your 
father — ” and she stopped short and cast 
a bewildered glance about the room. 

Oh, mother, mother !” was all Sandy 
could say. The lump in his throat had 
grown so big that it seemed as if he 
would choke. The confession that fol- 
lowed may be imagined. 

Late that night the mother and son 
knelt together, while the fervent petition 
went up to God that the day’s tempta- 
tion might yield blessed fruit in the 
boy’s heart by teaching him the right 
and Christian way to look at it. 


CHAPTER VII. 


TO THE HIGHLANDS. 


seemed to little Sandy Cameron 
as if the time-table had somehow 
got changed, and that the days 
were double the length they 
should be. The day appointed for the 
party to set forth on their journey was a 
certain Tuesday morning in August. 
Would that Tuesday morning never 
come ? The old clock on the wall kept 
up its unceasing “ tick, tack, tick, tack,’’ 
ill such a lazy, indifferent way that 
Sandy^ felt like moving the hands and 
hurrying it on several hours at once. 
He might have moved the clock, to be 
sure, but then he could not move the 
sun, the great old time-piece which only 
one Hand can wind up, and by it order 


88 


SANDY CAMERON. 


the goings and comings of all the peo- 
ple. 

It is such hard work to wait/’ said 
poor Sandy. 

We all know just how he felt, because 
every one of us has at some period been 
in a hurry for time to move on and bring 
us to the event longed for. 

‘‘Be patient, my laddie,” again and 
again said Mrs. Cameron. “Here’s a 
wee lesson the Lord has set ye, with a 
great pleasure at the end o’t to reward 
ye. AVould it not be a shame for ye to 
be sae greedy o’ the pleasure that ye 
cannot learn the lesson o’ patience that 
comes before ? Look at it in that way; 
my son.” 

Alas ! when patience is the task set for 
us, we are all dull scholars enough ; 
partly because we think it is easy, and 
not worth learning, but there we mis- 
take, for he who has mastered himself 
so as to wait willingly for his pleasures 
is a good scholar. 


TO THE HIGHLANDS. 


89 


Tuesday morning did come at last, and 
with new boots and a new suit of clothes, 
the finest he had ever owned all the 
twelve years of his life, Sandy set forth 
with the party from the hotel, and was 
soon whizzing along in the cars on the 
way to Glasgow. There was a nicely- 
pointed pencil in his pocket, and some 
pieces of drawing-paper ; and whenever 
the train made a halt, out they came, and 
Sandy made a few quick marks — rude 
sketches enough, but something, as he 
said, to help him to remember the place, 
and to show his mother on his return. 

The rest of the time he needed no 
other amusement than to lean back in the 
nicely-cushioned seat and set words to 
the measured tune of the engine, or 
rather to try to fancy that the noisy 
locomotive itself was singing to him on 
this wise : Sandy Cfemeron going to the 
:ZV(9sachs ! oh what a hap^y boy is San- 
dy Over and over again the pleasant 
words uttered themselves to the little 


90 


SANDY CAMERON. 


traveller, until he fell into a delightful 
day-dream about the rare enjoyment in 
store for him. 

But Jessie, who was not at all of the 
dreaming sort, decidedly disapproved of 
her young uncle’s silence. Travelling 
was an old story to her ; she heard no 
song from the engine — to her ears it 
made a very monotonous and disagree- 
able noise ; and as for the landscape, 
that was dull enough in the eyes of the 
little Londoner — no fine buildings, no 
shops, nothing but grass and trees, and 
now and then a house. What Sandy 
thought so pretty and worth the trouble 
of making pictures of she could not 
imagine. There was no one to talk with. 
Mrs. Carter was quietly reading, and 
Alice lay with her head on the nurse’s 
lap, too weak to take much interest in 
anything; so, left to herself, Jessie grew 
restless and cross. 

Had this party been travelling in 
America, in one of our large cars, where 


TO THE HIGHLANDS. 


91 


all the passengers are seated together, 
she might have found a baby to play 
with, have made acquaintance with some 
child of her own age, or at least have 
found amusement in watching the mo- 
tions of people around her. In Scotland 
and England it is quite different. The 
cars are divided into separate compart- 
ments, each so small that a family party 
requires one to itself, and consequently 
the occupants see nothing of their fel- 
low-travellers in the course of a long 
journey. There was no employment for 
Jessie, therefore, but to fidget in her seat, 
and now and then grumble at Sandy 
for being so stupid. 

At last they reached Glasgow, and 
the little girl regained her good humour. 
The rest of the way was by boat, and 
she would have the free use of her 
limbs, perhaps of her tongue. Pretty 
soon they were on board the steamer, 
dashing down the Clyde ; and while 
Sandy stood by the side of the boat, en- 


92 


SANDY CAMERON. 


joying the scene in his own quiet way, 
his gay niece flitted away to watch the 
different groups on board, and soon her 
mother saw her skipping about the deck 
with a little girl of her own age whose 
acquaintance she had just made. 

Jessie laughed and talked with her 
new friend quite a long time for so rest- 
less a little person as she was, but at last 
some disagreement arose, and she came 
over to where her mother was sitting 
with a scowl on her pretty face. She 
sat down between her and the nurse, and 
began playing with little Ailsie’s curls ; 
but in a moment up she jumped with a 
suddenness that made the sick child start 
nervously, and went to where Sandy 
stood with his arms leaning on the rail, 
his gaze fixed on the shore they were 
passing and a bright smile on his face, 

‘‘What are you laughing at?’’ she 
asked, rather crossly. “ It’s tiresome 
having nothing to do and nobody to 
speak to. Let’s play at something. 


TO THE HIGHLANDS. 


93 


But tell me, what do you see that makes 
you laugh?” 

Sandy's eyes turned from the scene 
before him, and rested for a moment on 
the little girl's unquiet face. 

‘'Was I laughing, Jessie? I did not 
know it,'' he said, “ but I was thinking 
what a beautiful place the world is, and 
how good God is to make it so fine, and 
then to put us in it. Don't you think so 
too?'' 

“Why, yes,'' answered Jessie, in a 
very unsympathizing tone, “ I suppose I 
do; but I wish you would not begin 
talking so like grown-up folks. You 
are as stupid as if you were twenty years 
old.'' 

“Well, then,'' said Sandy, just a lit- 
tle cross in his turn, “ you begin talking 
about whatever you choose, and I will 
try to answer. I don't know what little 
girls like to talk about ; how should I ? 
Girls are so queer.” 

“No, they are not. Girls have much 


94 


SANDY CAMEEON. 


more sense than boys/’ retorted his com- 
panion. Besides, I am not such a very 
little girl as you seem to think. I was 
nine years old ever so long ago ; wasn’t 
I, mamma?” 

Mrs. Carter had just put aside her 
book, and was listening with an amused 
smile to the children’s conversation. 
When thus appealed to, she replied : 

‘^You were nine years old on the 
second day of this month ; that is just 
two weeks ago.” . 

There, now !” said Jessie, with a 
look at Sandy that meant ‘^You can 
have nothing more to say on that sub- 
ject.” 

Sandy did not say anything, but he 
laughed, and that was more vexatious, in 
Jessie’s opinion, than words. Her eyes 
flashed and her lips opened to give vent 
to some angry speech, when all at once 
her attention was attracted by the con- 
versation of a group of passengers a few 
steps from where she and Sandy stood. 


TO THE HIGHLANDS. 


95 


She turned from him to listen, and he, 
not sorry to miss the sharp speech that 
even his short acquaintance with his 
niece led him at that moment to expect, 
took a step nearer the group also. Sev- 
eral ladies and gentlemen were listening 
attentively to a plain-looking man with 
an ugly scar on his face, and who, Jessie 
soon discovered, had but one finger left 
on his right hand. The man had been 
a soldier in tlie British army, and had 
passed through scenes whose record will 
be read with horror even by future gen- 
erations. At the moment when the 
children drew near he was giving an 
account of the battle in which he had 
received the scar, and had had his fingers 
shot off. 

‘‘ How dreadful !” a lady exclaimed. 
‘‘ Poor fellow ! I fear you will have to 
carry about that scar as long as you 
live.” 

‘ Fear,’ did you say, madam ?” re- 
torted the soldier, with a glance of some- 


96 


SANDY CAMERON. 


thing like indignation at the lady ; “ why, 
I would not sell that scar for a thoi^nd 
pounds. It is a proof, madam, that I 
have fought and suffered for my coun- 
try.’’ 

‘‘ Spoken like a brave soldier !” said a 
voice just in front of Sandy. I wish 
all Christians felt the same toward the 
Saviour of mankind as you do toward 
your country.” 

‘‘ How’s that ?” inquired another. 

‘‘Then,” said the former speaker, 
“ we would have the same spirit abroad 
as that which moved the first disciples 
to rejoice in that they were counted 
worthy to suffer for Christ’s sake. We 
are not very apt to hear a man say that 
he would not sell his poverty, his poor 
health, his disappointments, for a thou- 
sand pounds.” 

“ I should think not,” said some one 
in the group. 

“But those are the scars and wounds 
that many a Christian bears through 


TO THE HIGHLANDS. 


97 


life as proofs of what he has endured in 
the Lord’s service.” 

“ That is a queer way of looking at 
the question, sir,” returned the man who 
had spoken before. You won’t find 
many as is proud of that kind of scars 
and as he gave this conclusive answer 
he moved away. 

The group dispersed, for the people of 
whom it was composed did not enjoy the 
turn the conversation was taking. Jes- 
sie had already gone back to her seat 
beside her mother, but Sandy stood look- 
ing in the grave face of the good gentle- 
man who had answered the soldier with 
an interest so gi-eat as to make him un- 
conscious of his own rudeness in staring 
at a stranger. 

Presently tlie gentleman caught his 
eye, and held out his hand, saying : 

‘‘Well, my little friend, and how do 
you look at it ? Such a young soldier as 
you can hardly have gained any scars 
yet in fighting for the Lord.” 

9 G 


98 


SANDY CAMEEON. 


No, sir and Sandy hung his head. 
“ I haven’t fought much, and I’m always 
letting myself get beaten.” Here the 
remembrance of the affair of the 
money-box came to mind. But, sir,” 
he continued, I can’t see how poverty 
or disappointment can be precious to a 
man as that scar is to the soldier. He 
has reason to be proud of that, to be 
sure.” 

Come, my boy, let us sit down and 
have a talk,” said the gentleman, and he 
led the way to a part of the boat where 
they could converse without being over- 
heard. I don’t mean that every trou- 
ble that comes to us is a mark to be 
proud of Many a scar in face or for- 
tune is the consequence of our own fool- 
ishness, and of such we cannot be proud ; 
but if, for the Lord’s sake, we suffer in 
mind, body, or estate, then indeed we 
may say we would not sell our scars for 
a thousand pounds, for by them it shall 
be known at the last day that we have 


TO THE HIGHLANDS. 


99 


fought manfully in his service. Only it 
must always be just that, for the Lord’s 
sake, or else, my boy, our sufferings are 
nothing worth. ‘I bear in my body the 
marks of the Lord Jesus,’ and ‘Unto 
you it is given in the behalf of Christ 
not only to believe on him, but also to 
suffer for his sake.’ ” 

Thegood man stood up as he said these 
last words, and for some moments looked 
silently at the shore they were passing 
or rather not at, but through, the scenery, 
to some vision created by his own 
thoughts. 

Sandy felt sure his new friend would 
like to be alone, so he moved to return to 
his sister. Not liking either to go too 
abruptly or to disturb the gentleman’s 
reflections, he did not speak to him, but 
tried to get up a little cough to attract 
his attention. 

His companion turned to him with a 
smile : 

“ I got talking to myself, and forgot 


100 


SANDY CAMERON. 


all about you, little friend. That is a 
great subject we were upon — a great 
subject indeed. To you, I suppose, it 
does not seem very interesting now ; but 
when you are as old as I — that is, if you 
grow up a Christian man — you will see 
it differently.” 

Sandy turned a perplexed look up to 
the speaker. The look was brimful of 
questions, and the gentleman answered 
them thus : 

If you have read your Bible through, 
you know very well — by name at least — 
the famous Mount Lebanon. There is a 
story told of a youth who once lived 
wdthin sight of that mountain, though at 
some distance from it. It used to sur- 
prise the boy that his father and all the 
older people who came to visit him spoke 
with so great admiration of the moun- 
tain. To him it seemed a very ordinary 
hill with low bushes growing over it. 
One day he took a pencil and drew a 
picture of it after his childish fashion. 


TO THE HIGHEANDS. 


101 


and in this picture you may be sure 
Mount Lebanon looked like a small af- 
fair indeed. He showed this to his father, 
who only smiled and made no comment. 
Some time afterward the old man said to 
his son : ‘ Take thy staff, Simon ; we 
will go to Mount Lebanon.’ They jour- 
neyed for several days, and at last reached 
the place. When the mists were dis- 
persed, and the boy looked up at the 
lofty eminence, with its wonderful cedar 
trees, whose praises have been spoken all 
over the world, he could hardly believe 
that this was the same hill with bushes 
growing on it he had seen from home. 
His father then showed him the poor 
little picture he had made, and asked if 
he still thought those few scratches fitly 
represented Mount Lebanon. The youth 
was ashamed, and answered : ‘ I drew 
that because I knew no better. I saw the 
mountain afar off, and it was nothing; 
but now that I have come near, I realize 
that it is too grand for me ever to think 


102 


SANDY CAMERON. . 


to portray.’ And so, my little man, as 
to the subject of the scars received and 
gloried in by all true soldiers of Christ : 
you can only see it, at your age, in the 
far distance of the future, and it will 
take some years yet for you to consider 
it as I do at my time of life. It is all 
in the way you look at it ; do you un- 
derstand ?” 

“I think I do,” said Sandy; ‘‘and 
when I’m a man, I hope I shall not be 
ashamed of my scars.” 

“ May the Lord grant it !” exclaimed 
the stranger, reverently. 

The boat was about to make a landing, 
and the passengers began moving about, 
preparing for the event ; so Sandy and 
his companion were separated. 

If, years after, you had inquired of 
Sandy Cameron as to his most distinct 
memory of that sail down the Clyde, he 
would no doubt have answered : “ The 
thoughts I then received about scars 
worn for the Lord’s sake.” 


CHAPTER YIII. 


TALKS HEARD AND OVERHEARD. 

^S^OYFUL were the days and weeks 
that followed. In all the air- 
castles that our Sandy had ever 
built sitting alone at the home 
fire-side, nothing had ever entered his 
thoughts quite so charming as this re- 
ality. How kind was Sister Annie to 
give him all this happiness ! How good 
was God to make all those grand moun- 
tains and beautiful lakes, with soft-hued 
clouds and golden sunlight framing them 
in ! and then, above all, to let him, 
Sandy Cameron, come there to look at 
them ! His portfolio was filled with 
sketches ; there was a view of Loch 
Lomond, with its many islands ; another 
of Ben Ledi, the mountains that he and 

103 


104 


SANDY CAMERON. 


Jessie had climbed together, and which 
had made her so angry because the rough 
ascent had worn out her best pair of 
gaiters. He had also a picture of Ellen’s 
Isle that he specially valued, and one of 
the Bracklyn Bridge, carefully done in 
water colours, which he thought was 
quite worthy of being framed and hung 
on the wall of the sitting-room at home. 
What would his mother say to them all ? 
and Sandy looked forward with delight 
to the long winter evenings when he 
would sit beside her as she did her work 
and tell her all about the places repre- 
sented in the sketches. 

His mother’s approval, his mother’s 
company, these made the centre and cir- 
cumference of all his happiness. As for 
his father, he loved him dearly, espe^ 
cially since that night when their hearts 
had been drawn together in prayer be- 
side his little bed; but Mr. Cameron 
was of necessity much of the time from 
home, and beside this fact, there never 


TALKS HEARD AND OVERHEARD. 105 

had been, never could be, from difference 
of nature, that entire sympathy between 
father and son that united Sandy and 
his mother. 

One of the happiest of those summer 
days among the Highlands was one de- 
voted to an excursion up Loch Lomond. 
There was a large party on board the 
steamer, and Jessie’s eyes had plenty of 
occupation in watching the people, while 
Sandy was, as usual, intent on enjoying 
the scene before him and copying its 
beauties as well as he could on a bit of 
drawing-paper. When Jessie had tired 
herself out with running about deck, and 
had ascertained to her satisfaction which 
of the ladies were pretty, who were well 
dressed and who not — that is, according 
to her judgment — she looked for a seat; 
and finding an unoccupied corner, she 
rolled up her mother’s large shawl for a 
pillow, and leaning back, presently fell 
asleep. It was a rare thing for active 
Jessie to close her eyes while the sun was 


106 


SANDY CAMERON. 


shining; perhaps it was the soothing 
sound of the water and the lack of an 
interesting companion to talk with that 
led to this uncommon occurrence. Her 
nap was a short one. She was wakened 
by the sound of voices ; and opening her 
eyes, she saw two well-dressed young girls 
sitting quite near her corner, but with 
their hacks turned, so that they had not 
observed her presence. Jessie kept quite 
still and closed her eyes again; as she 
had no one to talk to herself, it would at 
least be a little diversion to hear other 
people talk, and it was not likely, she 
thought, that these girls, almost grown- 
up ladies, would care whether a little 
girl like her overheard them or not. 

Yes, indeed,” one was saying when 
this little eaves-dropper roused herself 
to listen ; what a pert thing she is ! I 
do wonder how Mrs. Brown can let her 
daughter associate with her ?” 

‘‘Oh, you may be sure that Maggie 
Horner knows quite enough to be on her 


TALKS HEARD AND OVERHEARD. 107 


good behaviour when Mrs. Brown is by. 
Deceitful thing ! I never could bear 
her.’’ 

The young, lady who made this re- 
mark carried a stylish parasol, and there 
was an air about the fit of her dress that 
made worldly-minded little Jessie decide 
at once that she was a person of position 
in society, and that her opinion was 
therefore to be respected. She won- 
dered who that dreadful Maggie could 
be of whom she had spoken so sternly. 

‘‘ And to think,” said the first speaker, 
of the way she blinds the teachers ! 
They think Maggie Horner is just per- 
fection. Sneaking thing! I don’t be- 
lieve she writes those compositions her- 
self ; do you ?” 

‘‘ Write them herself? Of course not ; 
she gets her brother Dick to do it for 
her. She has not got brains enough for 
a cat.” 

Jessie had by this time turned herself 
about, so that she could see the two girls 


108 


SANDY CAMERON. 


as well as listen to their conversation. 
Just beyond them was seated a gentle- 
man with a newspaper. Jessie had no- 
ticed that two or three times he had 
looked over the top of his paper at the 
speakers with a grave expression, and 
that while her heroine with the fine 
parasol was talking he had put down the 
paper with a sigh, and had sat quite 
still, evidently listening to the remarks, 
while he leisurely wiped his spectacles 
with his silk handkerchief. 

He must be a friend of that Maggie 
Horner,’’ was Jessie’s wise conclusion, 
‘‘ and he don’t like to hear her spoken 
against.” 

“ Oh, I cannot bear her ! She’s too 
mean for anything!” were the next sen- 
tences the little girl heard. 

Upon this the gentleman moved his 
chair, put down his newspaper, and be- 
gan clearing his throat with considerable 
energy. This had the effect desired. 
The girls paused in their conversation. 


TALKS HEARD AND OVERHEARD. 109 

and looked up to see the cause of such 
commotion. 

‘‘ Young ladies,” said the noisy gen- 
tleman, with a courteous bow, “ I trust 
you will excuse me for interrupting you. 
Also I hope you will pardon me for un- 
intentionally overhearing your words. 
I am sorry to learn that Miss Maggie 
Horner is not a favourite of yours, that 
you consider her so disagreeable. I was 
not aware until now that she had such 
bad traits of character.” 

“Oh, sir,” began the girl who had 
made the sharpest speeches, “ we didn’t 
know that you were a friend of Maggie’s.” 

“We did not know,” said the other, 
“ that anybody was hearing a word of 
what we said. We did not mean to 
say anything against her. She is a very 
nice girl and an excellent scholar, and 
everybody that knows Maggie has a 
high respect for her.” 

“ Indeed they have,” added the other. 
“ Please, sir, don’t think anything of our 
10 


no 


SANDY CAMERON. 


foolish remarks. We were half in fun. 
Are you Maggie’s uncle, sir ?” 

The gentleman cleared his throat 
Hgain. 

Young ladies,” said he, do not 
trouble yourselves to invent excuses for 
the bitter speeches you have just been 
making. I am not Maggie’s uncle — I 
never heard of her before ; but just 
think what an impression you have 
given me of one whom you admit to be 
‘ an excellent scholar, a nice girl, and 
one whom every one respects’ ! If ever 
I should meet her, can I help recalling 
the e])ithets you have so freely applied to 
her ? If you had not taken it for granted 
that I held some relationship to this 
school-mate of yours, I never should have 
heard any good of her ; but you at last 
allow that this ^ deceitful,’ ‘ sneaking ’ 
Maggie has several good qualities.” 

His eyes were fixed searchingly upon 
the faces of his hearers. They were too 
much ashamed and confused to make 


TALKS HEARD AND OVERHEARD. Ill 


any reply, and after a moment’s pause 
lie went on : 

‘‘ Our opinion of others depends not 
so much on what sort of people they 
really are as the way in which we look 
at them. If we wish to see faults, and 
search for them, no doubt we can pick 
flaws even in the best of our friends ; but 
if we look for the good qualities of those 
around us, we shall go through life in 
happy ignorance that any evil exists. 
Do not be angry with my plain speech, 
young ladies and looking gravely in 
the faces of the girls, he took up his 
paper and walked away. 

By this time Jessie was very uncom- 
fortable. She had enjoyed the gossip, 
but not the sermon that followed ; and 
besides, from sitting so long in a cramped 
position, her foot had got asleep, and she 
dreaded to move. Pretty soon the young 
ladies, who had not taken any notice of 
the little eaves-dropper’s presence, got up 
and walked away, and as soon afterward 


112 


SANDY CAMERON. 


as her foot would let her Jessie hopped 
over to the side of the boat where her 
mother and Sandy sat. 

‘‘Have you been enjoying yourself, 
my little daughter?” was Mrs. Carter’s 
kindly greeting. 

“Yes, mamma — no, not very much,” 
was the contradictory answer. 

“ We have,” said Sandy ; “ haven’t 
we. Sister Annie ? and even little Ailsie 
feels the better for this fine air and 
Sandy patted the pale face, almost hid- 
den in its wrappings, that rested on the 
nurse’s arm. 

“Yes, Sandy,” spoke a faint voice 
from among the shawls — “ ever so much 
better. I shall soon be well again — real 
well and strong, like Sister Jessie ; 
sha’n’t I, dear mamma ?” 

But Mrs. Carter did not answer. She 
bent down and kissed the sick child 
once, twice, three times ; and when she 
lifted her face, Jessie’s quick eyes noticed 
a tear on her cheek. What did it mean? 


TALKS HEARD AND OVERHEARD. 113 


‘‘ Why, there’s my dear good gentle- 
man,” exclaimed Sandy, with an abrupt- 
ness unusual to him. He bounded 
across the deck, and, to Jessie’s surprise, 
she saw him shaking hands and talking 
eagerly with the very same person who 
liad a few minutes before so effectually 
put an end to the uncharitable talk 
about Maggie Horner. She was sorry 
to find that Sandy was acquainted with 
him. No doubt they would get into 
some stupid conversation that Sandy 
would enjoy, and there would be no 
chance for her to speak to him for an- 
other long while. Why would that 
man keep in the way, with his grave 
face and solemn words, just to spoil her 
fun? She wished he would keep his 
sermons for Sunday and deliver them 
in a church, which was the only proper 
place for such matters, according to 
worldly-minded Jessie’s ideas. 

But it happened that on this occasion, 
as on many others, Sandy and his little 

10 * H 


114 


SANDY CAMERON. 


niece viewed things in a very different 
light ; and while she sat alone, fretting 
jealously at the stranger for taking 
Sandy from her, he was listening with 
rapt attention to his already revered 
friend as he commented upon the pencil- 
sketch just finished of a scene they had 
lately passed : 

So you would like to be an artist, 
my boy ?’’ 

‘‘Yes, sir, better than anything else 
in the world and Sandy’s plain little 
face lighted up with an enthusiasm that 
made it really handsome. 

In fact, our hero’s features were such 
as appeared commonplace enough under 
ordinary circumstances; but when illum- 
inated by any strong feeling, as at pres- 
ent, one saw, not the homely nose and 
freckled cheeks, but the beautiful spirit 
shining through. Who cares for the 
comeliness of a lamp, so long as the 
flame is pure and bright ? 

“Well,” said Sandy’s friend, “per- 


TALKS HEARD AND OVERHEARD. 115 

Imps the Lord means that you shall 
serve him by painting pictures; who 
knows? I am sure, if you have his 
love in your heart, it will have some- 
thing to do with the mixing of your 
colours ; and when you have j)ainted a 
cloud or a river, it will be done in such 
a way that the beholder will exclaim, 
‘ How wonderful is God, who hath made 
the world so beautiful that even this 
piece of canvas bears a reflection of him!’ 
rather than ‘ What a talented artist must 
he be who conceived this I’ ” 

Sandy blushed. His aim was not so 
noble as this. He wanted, indeed, to be 
a great artist, but rather that he might 
win fame for himself and wealth for his 
mother than glory for his God. Did 
the good gentleman read his thoughts as 
he stood there abashed and unable to 
make a reply ? It seemed so, for pres- 
ently he added : 

‘‘ Whatsoever ye do, do all for the 
glory of God.” 


IIG 


SANDY CAMERON. 


Thank yon, sir;” the words came 
slowly. “ I had never looked at it that 
way.” 

‘‘ Not many boys do, alas !” said the 
good man, with a sigh. “ If they did, 
the land would be full of heartier Chris- 
tians, and the day of the Lord would 
seem near at hand.” 

The conversation, the journey, the 
day, came all too soon to an end. 

“ Why can’t pleasant things last 
longer ?” thought Sandy, regretfully. 

Foolish Sandy! Why can’t the lovely 
wild flowers last in the fields ? So they 
do, because the seeds they drop in the 
earth spring up again when the right 
time comes, and the flower of one spring 
yields a score the next. So of the seeds 
dropped that day on Loch Lomond. 
Who could tell into what good thoughts 
and fragrant deeds they might spring in 
coming years from their resting-place in 
young hearts ? 


CHAPTER IX. 


AILSm 

VEN the bracing air of the High- 
lands failed to bring the colour 
back to Ailsie’s cheeks and 
strength to her delicate frame. 
That sail upon Loch Lomond was the 
last she ever took for pleasure. There 
was another journey on the water, in- 
deed, for the whole party, but it was 
a hurried and sorrowful one back to 
Edinburgh for the sake of obtaining 
better medical advice for the little in- 
valid. Hopeful Sandy said : ‘‘You just 
need one or two of old Dr. Carlings 
dreadful doses to make you as well as 
ever, Ailsie dear;” and Jessie, with a 
selfish thought underlying her love for 
her sister, added : “ And you must hurry 
and get well real soon, so that we can 

117 



118 


SANDY CAMERON. 


coax mamma to bring us back here to 
finisli our visit.’’ 

On the way home Sandy made no 
sketches. The clouds hung as softly 
over the landscape as a month before, 
and the tints of the heather on the hills 
were as varied as then. There was a 
great difference, not in the scenes, but 
in the way that Sandy looked at them. 
The shadow of a coming sorrow hung 
between his eyes and the beauty of the 
outer world. Even the song of the 
engine on the way from Glasgow to 
Edinburgh was far less cheery than on 
the day of his leaving home ; he did 
not trouble himself to fancy words 
adapted to the regular sound it made, 
for this time it was monotonous and tire- 
some. Even Jessie was not more rest- 
less during the ride than her usually 
patient young uncle. Every few mo- 
ments he leaned over to take a look at 
the pale little face on the nurse’s arm, 
and between times bothered Mrs. Carter 


AILSIE. 


119 


with questions that she was unable to 
answer except by tears. 

Sad and anxious were the days that 
followed. Sandy was at home again, 
and a new term of school was beginning, 
but he had little heart for study, and 
the anticipated j)leasure of the evening 
talks with his njother abQut his travels 
was postponed. All thoughts now cen- 
tred on the little girl lying on her bed 
at the hotel, growing paler and weaker 
all the time, in spite of the tender nurs- 
ing and medical skill with which her 
mother hoped to hold her darling to the 
earth at least a little longer. 

Mrs. Cameron now spent nearly all her 
time at the hotel, only going home for 
an hour or two occasionally, as she could 
be spared. So Sandy had to be more 
his “ mother’s man ” than ever in at- 
tending to his father’s comfort and keep- 
ing the house neat and cheerful during 
her absence. Kegularly, .when school 
was out, he went to the hotel to learn 


120 


SANDY CAMERON. 


how Ailsie was, always going with a 
hopeful heart and returning with a sad- 
dened one, for the tidings were about 
the same each day : ‘‘ A little weaker,’’ 
or “ She has more pain than yesterday.” 

One afternoon Jessie met him at the 
entrance with her hat on : 

‘‘ I thought it was time for you to 
come, so I ran down to meet you. Don’t 
go in ; come with me and take a walk. 
I must talk to somebody, and in there 
grandmamma holds up her finger and 
nurse says, ‘H-sh-sh !’ if I open my lips. 
Come !” 

Sandy obeyed ; lie had got into a 
liabit of following the directions of the 
imperative littleladyas a matter of course. 
Jessie started on ahead, and did not utter 
another word until they had reached a 
quiet street where there were few passers. 
Then she walked more slowly ; but in 
spite of the desire she had expressed to 
talk to somebody, she now waited for her 
companion to speak first. 


AII^SIE. 


121 


Sandy looked at lier inquiringly ; 
there were tears in her* eyes, and her 
lips were trembling with the effort she 
made to keep back a sob. Sandy was 
startled; when Jessie began crying, there 
must be very good cause, he was sure. 

‘‘What are you greetin’ for? Were 
ye sae lonesome wi’ naebody to talk to? 
or ” — and the boy’s tone grew sadder — 
“ is it the thocht of dear Ailsie ?” 

It was not often now that Sandy so 
forgot himself as to use Scotch words in 
Jessie’s presence, — she had made fun of 
him for that so mercilessly ; but they 
came most readily to his tongue in the 
moment of anxiety. For a wonder, she 
took no notice either of the questions or 
the language in which they were uttered ; 
she stood quite still, pulled out her little 
handkerchief, and began crying in good 
earnest : 

“ It is not good of God to take her — 
all the sister I’ve got. Why can’t he 
take somebody else’s sister? I don’t 
11 


122 


SANDY CAMEEON. 


want Ailsie to go to heaven. It’s not 
nice in heaven, and Ailsie will miss 
mamma and me dreadfully.” 

Oh, Jessie, dinna, please dinna, talk 
so. The holy angels are in heaven ; 
they will take care o’ Ailsie and be guid 
to her; they will love her better even 
than you and Sister Annie do,” said 
Sandy. 

The certainty that Ailsie would die 
expressed in Jessie’s words gave him a 
great pang. He wanted to be silent and 
think it over, but it would never do to 
let her make such a noise in the street. 
People would think he had been quarrel- 
ing with her. It was usually Jessie that 
took into consideration what people 
would think, rather than Sandy, but 
now she did not seem to care for any- 
thing but her own wild grief: 

But Ailsie don’t know the angels, 
and slie will be afraid of them. She 
will be lonesome without mamma and 


me. 


AILSIE. 


123 


Sandy did not reply this time; he 
took the little girl’s hand and drew her 
along as rapidly as he could toward 
Bread street, thinking that if he could 
get her to sit down quietly in the house 
he could comfort her, and then perhaps 
she would stay and take a cup of tea 
with him ^nd his father — that would do 
her good — and after that he would walk 
back with her to the hotel. Jessie cared 
not in which direction they turned ; she 
covered her eyes with her handkerchief 
and let her companion lead her along. 
When they reached the door of his 
home, Sandy opened it, and gently drew 
her into the sitting-room. She sat down, 
as if pleased at finding herself there. 

“ I am glad to be at grandpapa’s 
house,” she said, presently, in a voice 
stifled by the handkerchief that covered 
her mouth as well as her eyes. “It 
don’t smell of camphor nor any of the 
other nasty things. At nights, lately, 
I have gone to sleep and forgotten all 


124 


SANDY CAMERON. 


about Ailsie, and* then, as soon as I woke 
up, I have begun smelling the things ii^ 
the bottles, and have known by that that 
she was going to die.’’ 

“ Why, I don’t see,” said Sandy, 
‘‘ what the things in the bottles have to 
do with dear Ailsie’s dying.” 

“ Don’t you ? That’s because you 
don’t know things,” returned the little 
girl, brightening up at this evidence of 
her superior information. “ I remember 
when my papa died, and when my aunt 
Kate, that was papa’s sister, was sick — 
only she didn’t die — the room smelt just 
so of camphor and bay rum and all the 
other bad-smelling things in bottles.” 

Well, dear, I would not think about 
that now. Just take off your hat, and 
I will put some water in mother’s 
basin here in the bed-room for you to 
bathe you poor eyes while I make the 
fire and put on the kettle. Father will 
be home by and by, and then we will 
have supper.” 


AILSTE. 


125 


“ I don’t believe you’ve got anything 
good,” sighed Jessie ; but,” after a lit- 
tle pause, ‘‘ I don’t care much ; I’ll 
stay.” 

Then Sandy went to work in earnest, 
well pleased at the little lady’s conde- 
scension ; and when the table was set 
and the kettle on the fire, he came and 
sat down beside her : 

“ Dear Jessie, dinna grieve sae sair 
about Ailsie. Ye ken how she loves 
to say her little hymns and prayers, and 
to hear Sister Annie talk about the Lord 
Jesus and the angels.” 

‘‘ I know,” answered Jessie, with fresh 
sobs. ‘‘Alice is good; she will go to 
heaven. I wish she was not so good, for 
then she would not die. It is only good 
children that God takes away, not 
naughty ones like me. I shall live to 
grow up. If I were to be ever so ill, 
I should not be one bit afraid, for I 
know I should not die.” 

The boy looked astonished at this ex- 


126 


SANDY CAMERON. 


pression of opinion, and wondered if his 
niece really meant what she said. Her 
face was so sorrowful and her voice so 
choked with sobs that he could not doubt 
her sincerity. How he wished that his 
mother or the good gentleman he had 
met on the boat was there to explain 
the truth to her ! As there was no one 
else, he resolved to try and get her to 
look at things differently : 

‘‘ It’s no because dear Ailsie is good 
that we know she will go to heaven. It 
is because the Lord Jesus loves her and 
has died on the cross to save her. That 
is truly so, Jessie. Mother has told me 
all about it a great many times. The 
Bible says so, and I think you are quite 
mistaken in supposing you will live to 
grow up because you are so naughty. 
Bad people die as well as good ones. I 
hope God will let us both live, though, 
until we have become a great deal better 
than we are. But, Jessie, you ought to 
believe — indeed you ought — that it is not 


AILSIE. 


127 


being good that will make Ailsie or any- 
body else go to heaven, but only Jesus’s 
dying to save us. You will believe that, 
won’t you, now?” 

‘‘ I don’t know. I suppose,” said the 
little girl, ‘Uhat I shall think so one of 
these days. But, Sandy, you talk about 
things just like grown folks and minis- 
ters ; you oughtn’t to expect me to know 
so much.” 

Why, Jessie,” said Sandy, feeling 
flattered in spite of himself at her com- 
plimentary speech, “ it’s a’ sae plain and 
simple. The very thocht o’ Jesus’s love 
^ is enoo to make us joyful in the midst o’ 
trouble. You ought to hear mother 
talk. I dinna ken ony thing but what 
she has taught me. But think now 
about heaven, where little Ailsie is go- 
ing. Will ye listen while I read you 
that bit in Bevelations where it tells 
about the beautiful gates, an’ the tree 
wi’ twelve manner o’ fruits, an’ the very 
street made o’ fine gold?” and without 


128 


SANDY CAMERON. 


waiting for an answer, Sandy ran and 
got his mother’s Bible and read aloud the 
verses marked by her pencil in the last 
chapters of Bevelation. 

‘‘ I am real glad,” said Jessie, interrupt- 
ing the reader at the twenty-fifth verse 
of the twenty-first chapter, that there 
isn’t any night in heaven. I’m afraid 
of the dark. Ailsie isn’t; but then, if 
it grew dark, she would get sleepy, and 
look all around for mamma to put her 
to bed.” 

“ They don’t get tired and sleepy in 
heaven,” said Sandy, seriously. 

With an impulse very rare in Jessie, 
she threw her arms about Sandy’s neck 
and hugged him so tightly that he could 
hardly breathe. 

You dear old fellow !” she said ; 
‘^you’re just as good as can be. I 
don’t understand all you have said, but 
it has made me feel ever so much better. 
I wish I could look at things the way 
you do, for then I wouldn’t feel so bad 


AILSIE. 


129 


about Alice, and maybe I wouldn’t be 
so afraid of dying myself. Sandy, I 
will try to be good — truly I wdl. If 
God takes Ailsie to heaven, mamma will 
not have any little girl but me, and I 
won’t be naughty any more.” 

Only God can help you to be good 
or make you look at things the right 
way. Mother has taught me that, and 
I want you to believe it too. Let us 
pray for each other ever}^ night; will 
you, Jessie?” 

“Yes, I’ll try. I get sleepy some- 
times, and forget my prayers, but truly, 
Sandy, I’ll try.” 

When Mr. Cameron came home for 
his supper, he found the kettle boiling 
and everything in nice order, and the 
two children sitting together talking 
very gently and quietly. His first in- 
quiry was about Alice. 

“ She is going to die, grandpapa, and 
go to heaven,” said Jessie, with quiver- 
ing lip. 


130 


SANDY CAMERON. 


‘‘I feared so, lassie — I feared so frae 
the first. But better go to heaven now 
than to live long and all the time get 
farther off from it.’’ Mr. Cameron sighed 
as he made this speech to himself rather 
than to Jessie. 

The children looked at each other 
across the table, as if with a mutual un- 
derstanding. 

‘M’ll go home with ye, lass, when 
you’ve finished your supper,” said Mr. 
Cameron, pushing back his chair ; “ I 
must have one more look at little Ailsie’s 
face before she goes.” 

Two days later there was a quiet 
funeral from the London hotel. People 
in the neighbourhood who saw it pass 
said : “ It is only a little child.” The 
poor mother said : It is my darling, 
my darling, snatched from my arms.” 
And the minister who stood beside the 
grave in the kirk-3’ard said : “ Behold 
another of the good Shepherd’s little 
lambs gathered safely home to the fold.” 


CHAPTER X. 


THE DUMBIE DIKES. 


WEEK later the little family in 
Bread street had resumed its 
usual ways. Mrs. Cameron was 
at home, busy as ever; and San- 
dy, having nothing to distract his mind 
from study, turned over a new leaf at 
school, to the great satisfaction of his 
teacher. Mrs. Carter and Jessie had 
returned to London the day after Ailsie’s 
funeral, because the mother’s heart grew 
restless and the hotel seemed vacant and 
gloomy without her lost child. She pro- 
posed to take Sandy home with her, and 
promised to give him every advantage 
of education which she bestowed upon 
Jessie. But Mr. and Mrs. Cameron 
would not consent. Sandy was the 


132 


SANDY CAMEKON. 


youngest of their family, the only one 
left at home to cheer their old age : they 
could not spare the lad. 

Sandy was disappointed. To see the 
grand sights of London, to live in Sister 
Annie's fine house and wear good clothes 
all the time, to take lessons in drawing, 
as she had promised he should, — oh, it 
would be so charming. His old quiet 
life in Bread street, with everything so 
poor and plain, seemed almost unendur- 
able when contrasted with the bright pic- 
ture his own fancy and his sister’s pro- 
mise spread out before him. 

‘‘ I didna think my laddie would be 
sae eager to get awa’ frae his hame and 
mither,” said Mrs. Cameron, when she 
saw the sparkle in Sandy’s eyes while 
her daughter was pleading with her to 
let him go. 

‘‘ It’s na that, mither — ye ken it’s na 
that I long to get awa’ frae hame an’ 
you.” 

“ I know that, my son,” said Mrs. Cam- 


TflE BUMBIE DIKES. 


133 


eron, with a sigh. My old eyes and 
your young ones can hardly look at a 
thing in the same way. You see only 
London pleasure ; I see London tempta- 
tions and niony a thing, laddie, that I 
pray the Lord your eyes may never be 
opened to understand. Nae, nae ; be 
content to bide at hame with us a while 
yet.’’ 

After that speech of his mother’s, 
Sandy thought a great many things 
about going to London, but he never 
spoke of the subject again. 

The intimacy between Eay Mackay 
and Sandy had become as strong again 
as ever, both boys having learned by 
experience that a true friendship was 
worth too much to sacrifice to one fool- 
ish quarrel. Often, after school, these 
two took long walks together, Sandy al- 
ways making sure that his pencil and 
piece of paper were in his pocket ready 
for use in case they should pass any ob- 
ject worthy of being sketched. 

12 


134 


SANDY CAMEKON. 


One fine afternoon Ray proposed that 
they should take a stroll toward Salis- 
bury Craigs. 

“ And on the way/’ said he, “ we 
must go by the Dumbie Dikes to see 
how nice the new building looks that 
has just been put up.” 

I don’t know why it is that new 
houses have such an attraction for half- 
grown boys, but that they have seems to 
be a fact. The one Ray alluded to as 
Dumbie Dikes — a queer name that for a 
street, was it not — was a large, sub- 
stantial structure, made after the plan, so 
common in Edinburgh, of several flats ” 
or stories, each one complete in itself and 
arranged for the accommodation of as 
many families as there were floors. Nor 
is this arrangement peculiar to dwellings 

* The name Dumbie Dikes was originally applied to 
an institution for the deaf and dumb in this locality, and 
after a time extended to the entire neighbourhood. Sir 
Walter Scott in his “Heart of Mid-Lothian” has im- 
mortalized the spot by means of his “ Laird of Dumbie- 
dikes.” 


THE DUMBIE DIKES. 


135 


erected for poor people, as until recently 
with us ; very handsome and expensive 
houses al^ there put up in this way. 

This one on Dumbie Dikes was in- 
tended evidently for the better class. 
On each side of the door was a row of 
bells, one above another, with a door- 
plate attached to each, so that every 
family might have the same advantage 
as if in a separate house. Alas for 
Sandy that the rows of brass bell-knobs 
looked so tempting that day ! 

‘‘ Come, Ray, let’s pull all those bells 
and try which has the best sound,” said 
Sandy. 

Oh no, better not,” was Ray’s pru- 
dent answer. 

“I will, just for fun,” said the other. 
“There’s no one living there yet, you 
know;” and as he spoke Sandy ran up 
to the door and pulled one knob after 
another, laughing loudly at the noise he 
made. 

Ray looked surprised ; 


136 


SANDY CAMERON. 


What ails you to-day, Sandy ? 
You’re unco’ wild for such a quiet lad.” 

‘‘ It’s such fun to hear them all jingle. 
Listen !” Sandy was full of delight at 
the racket he made. 

But the pleasure of pulling bells had 
a sudden check. Bay’s voice calling, 

Bun, run, quick as you can ! here’s a 
‘ peg ’ after you !” made him turn in ter- 
ror. He tried to run, but it was too late. 
Already his friend was out of sight, and 
a policeman — called by the boys of 
Edinburgh a “ peg ” — was clutching his 
arm : 

‘‘So you’re the youngster as has been 
disturbing the folks here ever since they 
moved in. Come along with me, sir, 
and see what we does for boys as spends 
their time pullin’ door-bells.” 

Sandy fairly shivered with terror. Not 
that he was a timid boy — his discovery 
of the truth about the vennel monk was 
sufficient proof that he was no coward 
it was the disgrace that had come to him 


THE DUMBIE DIKES. 


137 


by the touch of the policeman’s hand 
upon his arm. What would his mother 
say? 

Sandy had hard work to keep up with 
the man’s rapid pace, and got quite short 
of breath, but he used what he had in 
trying to clear himself of the wholesale 
charge brought against him, and pro- 
tested that this was the very first time he 
had touched a bell of the new house at 
Dumbie Dikes. 

‘‘Very likely!” replied the man, 
pulling him along still more rapidly. 
“ Chaps allers says so when they’re 
caught.” 

• When they reached the police-office, 
the “ peg ” delivered his young prisoner 
to the care of the sergeant of the police, 
who summoned him to an interior office, 
railed in for the sake of greater privacy. 
Here Sandy was questioned about his 
conduct, and then — oh what mortifica- 
tion ! — he had to submit to a thorough 
search of his clothes to see if he had 


138 


SANDY CAMERON. 


stolen anything. But the boy’s pockets, 
when turned inside out, revealed noth- 
ing more suspicious than his pencil and 
paper and the key of the box in which 
all his worldly possessions were kept. 

The man seemed satisfied that the 
prisoner’s offence did not extend beyond 
that in which he had been detected, 
and handed him back the key. Then 
he ordered the peg ” who had brought 
Sandy to lock him up for the night. 

In a few minutes more the terrified 
boy found himself shut in a cell, there 
to remain until summoned to meet his 
trial next day. It was not the discom- 
fort of the place that brought tears to 
his eyes, nor the dread of what he might 
yet have to suffer ; it was the idea that 
his character was ruined for life. No- 
body would ever trust him again — him, 
Sandy Cameron, a boy who had been 
locked in a cell of the police-office. 
People would shun him as one that 
might steal or commit murder, for thieves 


THE DUMBIE DIKES. 


139 


and murderers were the sort of people 
usually imprisoned in that style. His 
poor mother — his father too ; how they 
would grieve over their boy when Ray 
Mackay carried the news to them, as of 
course he would, that he, their own son, 
had been arrested and locked up in the 
police office ! 

What a long, sad night it was ! When 
the poor boy grew weary of his thoughts, 
he fell asleep, only to dream strange, 
fearful things, and to wake with a start, 
to find himself alone and cold and miser- 
able. Day came at last, and the hours 
dragged along heavily until the summons 
came for the prisoner to appear in court 
and answer the charge brought against 
him. 

When he found himself facing the 
judge in a court-room full of people, 
poor Sandy feared more than ever. 
Might they not sentence him to a long 
imprisonment, or send him off* to some 
foreign land, a convict ? His head grew 


140 


SANDY CAMERON. 


dizzy as lie stood there, but the voice of 
the judge recalled his senses, and he an- 
swered quite coherently the questions 
addressed to him. The policeman gave 
his testimony, and another man appeared 
as witness who had seen him standing 
at the door of the Dumbie Dikes house. 
Sandy was vexed that other people 
should be asked what he had frankly 
acknowledged. 

In consideration of the fact that this 
was the prisoner’s first offence, the judge 
was inclined to be lenient and let him 
off* with an admonition ; but a thin, 
sharp voice was heard somewhere near 
Sandy, saying : 

‘‘ May it please you, my lord, to con- 
sider what a serious nuisance this prank 
of mischievous boys has become, and to 
consider if it be not the part of wisdom 
to let this fellow bear the full penalty of 
the law, so that a warning may be given 
to others of his sort?” 

The thin, sharp voice belonged to an 


THE DUMBIE DIKES. 


141 


equally tliin, sharp man, and Sandy 
looked at him, wondering if he could 
possibly have any little boys of his own,- 
if, indeed, he had ever been a boy him- 
self, and had known the fascination of 
pulling door-bells. 

Three days’ imprisonment or the 
fine of one guinea.” Such was the judg- 
ment pronounced upon Sandy, and he 
left the court-room with the dreary ex- 
pectation of passing what seemed a ter- 
rible period of time in solitude and 
shame. It hardly was a relief when his 
father came, paid the fine, and took him 
home. He dreaded meeting his mother, 
his school-mates — yes, even the people 
passing along the street, for he believed 
that all the world must know of his dis- 
grace and despise him as long as he 
lived. 

He lingered at the outer door of the 
house, and would not enter with his 
father, feeling, he was quite sure, just as 
the prodigal son in the Bible story must 


142 


SANDY CAMERON. 


have felt on his return. His mother 
came out to him, and welcomed him 
with affectionate words, and almost be- 
fore he knew it he was kneeling, beside 
her chair with his head in her iaj), and 
pouring out his troubled feelings into 
her sympathizing ear. 

So you think that a’ the warld will 
despise ye as lang as ye live just because 
ye have been inside a court-room ? That 
is no’ the true aid Christian way to look 
at it, laddie. To seem wrang is a sma’, 
sma’ thing when ye have a conscience 
clear in the sicht o’ God. To do wrang, 
even when nane kens o’ that wrang but 
yoursel’ an’ your Maker, is the thing to be 
feared and shunned. You were a foolish 
lad to go ringing the door-bells in the 
Dumbie Dikes, but I’m sure you’ll never 
do the like again. Sae dinna fret, Sandy. 
Just look at it in the richt and true 
way.” 


CHAPTER XI. 


AN ACOJRN THAT GREW TO AN OAK. 

the course of time the Cameron 
family made what the Scotch call 
a ‘‘ flitting ’’ from their house on 
Bread street to one on the^High 
street for the sake of being nearer to 
Mr. CameroiTs work-shop. This event 
aflected Sandy more than the others, be- 
cause the change of neighbourhood made 
it necessary for him to change his school 
also, and leave all his old friends, the 
boys with whom he had studied and 
played for years. This was indeed a 
great trial, but after a time a real bene- 
fit grew out of it. The trial Sandy saw, 
because it was a present one, and the 
benefit he did not see, that being future. 
But you perceive there were two ways 
of looking at it. There is a queer old 

143 


144 


SANDY CAMERON. 


fable about a giant named Argus wbo 
had a hundred eyes placed all around 
his head, so that he could look in all di- 
rections at once. Now, if we all, boys 
and girls and grown people, could at 
one glance see the past, present, and 
future of our lives, I am sure we should 
be less disposed to grumble at the things 
we do not like ; for we should find, per- 
haps, a whole score of blessings growing 
out of some one little disappointment, 
and one passing trial the means of pre- 
paring our characters for some great 
work in life for which, but for that trial, 
we would have been unfit. But how 
foolish of me to stop here and preach a 
sermon, when the text thereof lies hid- 
den in the future of Sandy’s experience! 

After that move to the house, or rather 
one ‘‘flat” of the house, on the High 
street, he began attending one of the 
Heriot schools in a neighbouring “ close ” 
or alley. These schools — there are 
twelve of them in Edinburgh — were 


AN ACORN THAT GREW TO AN OAK. 145 


established by the generosity of the man 
after whom they are named ; and gen- 
eration after generation of school-boys 
reap the benefit of the good deed thus 
done by one who, having a large fortune, 
had also the wisdom, once prayed for by 
King Solomon, of knowing how to look 
at it. 

Sandy studied nowadays, but I cannot 
say that he was very often at the head 
of his class. After a while the teacher 
made the shrewd discovery that the 
pencil in the boy’s pocket was of far more 
interest to him than the dates in his his- 
tory or the problems in his geometry. 
The teacher thought about the matter, 
and one day, while Sandy was busy at 
his desk, not preparing for the next 
recitation, as he should have been, but 
altering the whiskers in the portrait of 
a cat he had drawn the day before, he 
summoned the boy up to the platform 
where he sat, and bade him bring the 
paper that he held in his hand. All the 

13 K 


146 


SANDY CAMERON. 


eyes in the room now turned toward the 
culprit, and poor Sandy, with cheeks as 
red as liis hair and a great pit-a-pat at 
his heart, marched up to meet the stern 
reprimand he expected. The teacher took 
the paper with a frown, hut the frown 
changed to a smile as he attentively in- 
spected pussy’s portrait, but all he said 
was : 

‘‘ You will remain in your seat when 
school is dismissed. Master Cameron ; I 
wish to talk with you.” 

I think that in Scotland, a good many 
years ago, scholars must have stood in 
greater awe of their teachers than they 
are apt to at the present day and in our 
own very independent country. At any 
rate, our friend Sandy was attentive 
enough to his lessons the rest of the day, 
and awaited with considerable anxiety 
the hour for closing school. It came at 
last ; and when the other boys had left 
the room, the teacher again called Sandy 
to his side. 


AN ACORN THAT GREW TO AN OAK. 147 

‘‘ Now I'll catch it," said the boy to 
himself, wishing that moment that his 
■ portrait of pussy had been at the bottom 
of the sea rather than in his hands, to 
bring him into so much trouble. 

But it was not for punishment, or 
even rebuke, that the young artist had 
been detained. The wise and kindly 
teacher, having recognized the talent of 
his scholar, had been forming a plan by 
which that talent might be cultivated. 
The result of that day's conversation 
after school was that, shortly after, Sandy 
received full permission to spend as 
much time as he liked in the statue 
gallery of the Royal Institution, and 
was allowed the use of all the plaster 
casts he liked to copy. 

Had the famous lamp of Aladdin 
been suddenly placed in our hero's hand 
— a lamp which the story says gave its 
owner power to get at once whatever he 
wished for — his happiness could not have 
been more complete. No more walks 


148 


SANDY CAMERON. 


after school for busy Sandy, no tempta- 
tion to such foolish freaks as ringing 
door-bells. Was not the way wide open 
for him now to realize his fondest ambi- 
tion and become an artist? Every day 
meant now, not twenty-four hours to be 
passed through as easily and pleasantly 
as was possible, but a fresh opportunity 
for improvement, one more step toward 
manhood^s work. 

In short, Sandy Cameron had now an 
object in life. Oh what a difference that 
makes ! 

It used to be such hard work to get 
up when his mother called him ; now it 
was often he that was first astir in the 
morning, and Mrs. Cameron, when she 
came into the kitchen to get breakfast, 
would find the fire lighted and the 
kettle singing loudly for her to hurry 
and make the tea. 

Sandy did not linger long at the table 
these days ; he was off in season to 
spend half an hour at the Royal Institu- 


AN ACORN THAT GREW TO AN OAK. 149 

tion before school-time. You see our 
hours are something like our purses ; if 
they are empty, we fling them about, 
and leave them wherever it happens. 
An idle hour or an empty purse seems 
of little consequence; but when they 
are full, the one of gold and the other 
of duties, how careful we are not to lose 
them ! Some people say, for I have 
heard them, No need to hurry about 
things ; there is plenty of time.’’ What 
extravagant spendthrifts they are ! And 
others say, when a pleasure is proposed, 
“ Indeed, I should enjoy it, but I cannot 
spare the time.” Of course this shows 
the different ways of looking at the sub- 
ject, for, as an old Indian once answered 
a white man who was making that com- 
mon excuse, want of time, for some ne- 
glected duty, “You have all the time 
there is.” We all have twenty-four 
hours a day — a big piece of time — but 
some of us make very little out of it. 

Sandy’s portfolio had grown very 

13 * 


150 


SANDY CAMERON. 


stout since his visit to the Highlands, 
and at last was crammed so full of pic- 
tures that it could hold no more, and 
after he begun his visits to the statue 
gallery, he used so much drawing-paper 
that Mr. Cameron declared that he 
should have to give up his drink al- 
together, so that the lad should have 
the price of it for his drawing materials. 
Very proud was the old man of the 
talent developing in his youngest son, as 
one may suppose, when he was willing 
to sacrifice so much for him as his glass 
of toddy. 

There was one other boy in school 
who shared Sandy’s fondness for draw- 
ing. This was Jamie Maclaine, whose 
brother was an engineer and able to 
teach him at home and set copies for 
him. 

The time for the annual examination 
drew near. 

Now,” said the teacher to Jamie and 
Sandy, I want you two boys to try 


AN ACORN THAT GREW TO AN OAK. 151 


your best, and have each a picture to 
show at examination.’^ 

As drawing had never been taught in 
the Heriot schools, the exhibition of 
pictures was altogether a new thing, and 
the gentlemen of the committee rubbed 
their spectacles and gave, an expression 
of surprise when two very neat drawings 
were handed for their inspection, one a 
bit of landscape, the other a copy of a 
statue of Hector. The committee crit- 
icised the work ; they questioned the 
teacher ; they put their heads together 
in consultation when the examination 
was over. The result was that thereafter 
teachers were engaged and the study of 
drawing was introduced into all the 
Heriot schools. 

Hundreds of boys have been taught to 
use their pencils in those schools since 
then, and perhaps not one of them has 
ever heard of Sandy Cameron and his 
portrait of pussy, nor of the two pic- 
tures exhibited by him and Jamie Mac- 


152 


SANDY CAMERON. 


laine. Generation after generation of 
the inhabitants of Egypt have depended 
for their very life upon the waters of the 
great river Nile, and yet until recently 
no European had discovered its source. 
And so in smaller things : we singsongs, 
and know not. who composed them ; we 
enjoy our apples and plums, and care not 
who planted the trees. Nevertheless, 
what a blessed thing it is to be the be- 
ginning, the source of good to other peo- 
ple ! We maybe so without knowing 
it, to be sure, and then the glory is all 
God’s, and not ours. We may do some- 
thing just for our own good and rejoice 
in it just for ourselves, as did Sandy 
Cameron over the praise he obtained for 
his picture, and never dream of any- 
thing more, but God, working by and 
through us, may make us the means of 
benefiting many, many people whom we 
know nothing about. What a glorious 
way of looking at the little things of our 
lives that is ! 


AN ACORN THAT GREW TO AN OAK. 153 


1 named my chapter thinking only of 
Sandy, but I will write the name again 
at the close thinking of us all. God 
gives into each hand a little acorn of 
influence ; if we drop it in the right 
time and place, that is all we have to do 
about it. The sunshine and the rain 
shall come upon it, and it shall sprout 
and bud as God wills; and what a joy is 
in store for us if from eternity we can 
look back on time, and behold as the re- 
sult of our planting an acorn that grew 
to an oak ! 


CHAPTER XII. 


CHEERY UP” 

^HERE are certain days when 
everything goes wrong with us. 
Whatever we try to do, we fail ; 
if we open our mouths to speak, 
the wrong word tumbles out first ; our 
clothes get torn, our tempers tried, our 
friends seem unkind, and we feel as if we 
liad no power at all to fight against cir- 
cumstances. Unlucky days, people call 
them. That is the way of shifting the 
blame from their consciences upon some- 
thing that cannot answer for itself — the 
“ day ’’ — and a cowardly way of doing it is. 
In truth’s dictionary ‘‘unlucky” means 
“ out of temper,” “ careless,” or “ obsti- 
nate ;” and all these ugly adjectives are 
to be applied to the person, not to the 
day. As a general thing, our “ luck ” is 

154 


CHEERY UP/ 


155 


what we make it, and the most of our 
small vexations will be found, if we hon- 
estly trace them back, springing from 
some root of wrong thinking, speaking, 
or doing of our very own. 

One of these unlucky days came to 
Sandy. He overslept himself ; then, in 
his hurry to get dressed, he pulled a 
button off his jacket and upset a basin 
of water on the floor. He had no time 
to help his mother ; and when his father 
asked him to hand his pipe from the 
shelf, he dropped it and broke it to 
2)ieces. By mistake he tore up a news- 
paper — one sent all the way from Amer- 
ica by his sister there — which had not 
yet been read, and so earned a severe 
scolding for his carelessness from his 
father, who was not a very patient man. 
Then there were errands to be done 
which obliged him to go quite a distance, 
and so lose his half hour for drawing 
that morning. This made Sandy feel 
cross, and during his rapid walk to 


156 


SANDY CAMERON. 


school lie grumbled to himself a good 
deal about the hardship of being scolded 
and sent all about town on errands, and 
having no time allowed him for study- 
ing his lesson. What an unlucky morn- 
ing it was ! He was sure he had ^not 
been to blame at all. Such was Sandy’s 
view of it, but his mother, as she 
mopped up the water on the bed-room 
floor and gathered up the fragments of 
pipe, and tried also to soothe her hus- 
band’s anger against the boy, wished in 
her heart that Sandy would be content 
to go to bed earlier of nights, instead of 
sitting up to paint pictures or work at ^ 
toy panoramas and the like, ingenious 
though they were, and so be behindhand 
in the morning, and out of temper too. 

The boy walked briskly along the 
street, holding an open book before him 
and trying to make up for lost time by 
learning a lesson as he walked. He jos- 
tled against two or three people on the 
way, and nearly upset a large basket 


CHEERY UP.' 


157 


which a poor old woman had set down 
on the sidewalk while sjie rested a mo- 
ment. Sandy at another time would 
have stopped to apologize, but now he 
only grumbled the more at his ill-luck 
and hurried on. By and by he stubbed 
his toe against a door-step, for, with 
his eyes on the book, he did not see 
where he was going, and down he fell, 
the book flying from his hand. He 
heard somebody laugh. Now, it is very 
trying to hear a laugh when one is al- 
ready mortified by the mere fact of hav- 
ing fallen on the street. Sandy was in 
just the humour to fight the person who 
had dared laugh at him ; so he picked 
himself and his book up and turned 
round to see who was the offender. 

‘‘ Cheery up, my lad ! Aye be cheery. 
Clieery, cheery, cheery up V’ said, or 
rather sung, a thin little voice close 
by. Did it hurt you? Never mind. 
Cheery, cheery, cheery up !” continued 
the voice. 


14 


158 


■ SANDY CAMEEON. 


Sandy glanced at tlie windows of the 
nearest houses,, wondering if some well- 
taught parrot had not given him this 
encouraging advice. There was no par- 
rot to be seen, but he observed for the 
first time a shrunken, nut-faced old man 
bowing and smiling at him from a door- 
way. Was this the evil-disposed person 
who had laughed at his downfall ? He 
could not fight an old man, especially 
such a thin, helpless-looking one as that. 
Did the queer little person think he 
knew him, or why did he keep nodding 
to him in that friendly way ? 

Sandy bowed in turn, and burst out 
laughing. He could not help it. The 
old man laughed too, mimicking his 
voice, and then began repeating his coun- 
sel : ‘‘ Cheery up, lad ; aye be cheery.” 

Sandy hurried on to school. Some- 
how, things did not appear so dismal and 
the day so unlucky as before he fell 
down. The one hearty laugh he had 
been beguiled into by the odd little per- 


CHEERY UP. 


159 


son in the doorway had brightened liiin 
up wonderfully and given him a new 
start. He inquired of a school-mate 
who lived in the neighbourhood who the 
man was, taking care not to mention what 
had led to this singular acquaintance. 

“ That said the boy ; ‘‘ why, that^s 
old ‘ Cheery Up.’ I thought everybody 
knew ‘ Cheery Up.’ He’s a poor daft body 
that’s always hanging about the street 
looking for a job of w’ork to do to keep 
him from starving. Nobody knows 
where he came from nor who he is, and 
I don’t believe he could tell himself.” 

When Sandy that evening told his 
mother of the morning’s adventure and 
his new acquaintance, she bade him look 
upon these as God’s lesson to him for 
the day. 

“ Ay, and a rebuke too, laddie,” she 
added, “ for was it not a shame that my 
boy, with his life full of blessedness, 
should need to be cheered by the words 
of a lonely, daft old body like that? 


160 


SANDY CAMERON. 


Hech, Sandy ! look at it in that licht, 
and learn to be more thankfu’ to Him 
who makes the difference between you 
an’ ' Cheery Up.’ ” 

Often after this Sandy encountered 
the poor half-witted fellow, and his 
friendly ‘‘How are you to-day?” was 
always answered with “ I’m aye cheery, 
sir; cheery, cheery, cheery.” This in- 
variable remark was sometimes rather 
inappropriate. The pall- bearers at a 
funeral were not unfrequently accosted 
with a smiling “ Cheery up !” and the 
ragged street-beggars who would have 
preferred a piece of bread to such ad- 
vice received the same counsel. 

It was one of this class that finally 
caused the old man’s death. A sullen- 
faced boy, ragged and dirty, but stout and 
strong enough to have been at better em- 
ployment, stood on the street one day and 
begged from all who passed. He held 
out his hand to old “ Cheery Up,” and re- 
ceived the usual friendly nod and advice. 


161 


“cheery up.” 

Ay, I’ll cheer ’ee up, y’ auld fool !” 
exclaimed the boy, angrily ; and as he 
spoke he hurled a large stone at the old 
man’s head. It hit his forehead, and he 
fell helpless upon the ground with a 
stream of blood oozing from the wound. 
A crowd quickly gathered to the spot, 
and Sandy came along just in time to see 
his poor friend taken to the hospital. 

The next day he persuaded his mother 
to go with him and inquire about the 
wounded man, and, if possible, to see 
him. They were too late. Death had 
come before they did, and all they could 
learn of the poor crazed fellow who had 
given Sandy more than one lesson of 
patience and hope was that he had passed 
away from earth with a smile on his lips, 
whispering to the very last the only 
words he seemed to understand : Cheery 
up ; I’m aye cheery.” * 


* “ A merry heart doeth good like a medicine.” Prov. 
xvii. 22. Keep a large supply of this “ medicine ” in your 
household, and administer it wherever you go. — Editor, 
14 L 


CHAPTER XIII. 

THE HORSE-RACE. 

HERE was a holiday at the Her- 
iot schools. Everybody knew it — 
that is, everybody who was not 
deaf, for all over town were scat- 
tered groups of boys, each as noisy as a 
bunch of fire-crackers all set off at once. 
There was also another event that same 
day that caused some excitement in Ed- 
inburgh, and added not a little to the 
loudness and eagerness of the boys’ 
voices. This was the horse-race which 
was to take place upon what was called 
the Leith sands, extending between the 
towns of Portobello and Leith. 

Every one knows how surely a public 
event like this attracts a crowd. Men 
left their work to gather at the race- 
course ; women dropped their needles 
162 



THE HORSE-RACE. 


163 


and brooms to reach the sands in time; 
babies who could understand nothing 
but that there was an uncomfortable 
noise and flurr3^ were snatched up by 
impatient mothers, and carried, almost 
out of breath, to see the horses. 

By the time Sandy Cameron reached 
the spot — for of course he went where 
every one else did — the crowd on either 
side the course was impenetrable. He 
bad started alone, but on the way had 
fallen in with two other lads of his own 
age bound in the same direction, and 
naturally they concluded to keep to- 
gether as comrades for the day. When 
they drew near the sands, the horses had 
already started, and were out of sight. 
Sandy and his companions sauntered 
down to the beach in search of cockles, 
and presently became so interested in 
their employment that they forgot every- 
thing else. 

Perhaps my reader has never eaten 
cockles ; if so, he has missed a treat, for 


164 


SANDY CAMERON. 


the little shell-fish so named is quite a 
luxury, and is much esteemed in places 
where it abounds. On the shores of 
England and Scotland cockles are so 
plentiful that any one who will take the 
time to gather them may have a very 
cheap and excellent dinner. 

While the lads were thus peering 
about in the sand, each intent on making 
his pile of cockles the biggest, there 
came a deafening shout from the crowds 
beside the race-course : ‘‘ Here they 
come ! here they come ! the horses ! the 
horses 

The boys, aroused from their work by 
the sudden, startling cry, turned round 
to look. A glance at the three approach- 
ing horses, foaming at the mouth and 
straining their utmost speed as they 
neared the winning-post, revealed their 
danger. They were directly in the path 
of the swift-footed animals, who could 
not be held in instantly at the post, but 
must of necessity turn off to the beach. 


THE HORSE-RACE. 


165 


The shouting spectators were thinking 
only of the race, while the increasing- 
excitement as the horses returned, the 
moment of decision being at hand, pre- 
vented their noticing the peril of the 
young cockle-gatherers. Indeed, there 
was no time, no way in which to save 
them, if they had. The boys turned, as 
I said, and looked before them. 

The terror, the bewilderment, that 
seizes the mind when it realizes that an 
instant, a step, a hesitation, means death 
or life came over Sandy and his com- 
panions."^ Not a moment was left for 
consideration as to which was the true 
way of avoiding the danger. 

The three boys stood together as the 
horses dashed toward the winning-post. 
One ran to the right, another to the left, 
but both forward toward the crowd, hop- 
ing to reach a position of safety in season. 
One stood still, paralyzed by terror. On 

* See De Quincey’s graphic sketch entitled “The Vis- 
ion of Sudden Death.” 


166 


SANDY CAMERON. 


came the horses. At the winning-post 
they turned. One rushed around the 
corner close by the throng of spectators. 
Instantly the boy who ran to the left 
was under his hoofs, mangled and bleed- 
ing, and the rider, hurled from his back 
several yards beyond, lay in the sand, 
senseless from the fall. The boy who 
had fled for safety in the other direction 
met with instant death from the hoofs of 
the second horse, which came rushing 
toward him so suddenly that there was 
no escape. 

The crowd looked on in horror, ex- 
pecting to see the remaining boy suffer 
the same fate as his fellows. He seemed 
to expect it also, as he stood motionless 
as if turned to marble, and as colourless, 
too, with clenched hands and staring 
eyes that saw not the people nor the 
scene, but only that one race-horse with 
its foaming mouth and sure, swift feet 
coming to crush him out of existence. 
There was hardly time for the brief 




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was the cry of thankfiil voices. 

p. 167. 


“He’s safe! he’s safe!” 


THE HOKSE-RACE. 


167 


prayer, God be merciful !” The danger 
was upon him — was past. He felt the 
warm breath from the animal’s nostrils 
upon his face, and nerved himself to 
meet the blow. It came not. The horse 
had gone close by him, and then out 
upon the sands. 

He’s safe ! he’s safe !” was the cry of 
thankful voices ; but benumbed with ter- 
rible sensations of that moment when 
death came so near, the boy neither 
moved nor spoke till a man came, took 
his hand, and led him away from the 
scene. Two had been taken and one 
left. One was killed instantly ; one, 
with life enough left in him to tell his 
name and residence, had died while be- 
ing carried to his home ; and the third 
one walked on and on through the city 
like one in a strange dream, looking 
straight onward, but seeing nothing, 
hearing nothing, all absorbed in the one 
thought, ‘‘ Why were they killed and I 
spared ?” 


168 


SANDY CAMERON. 


This hour was the turning-point of 
Sandy Cameron’s life. The change 
which comes to some hearts so gradually 
that they can hardly tell when and how 
they were converted, and to others as 
suddenly as to the persecuting Saul of 
Tarsus, passed over his soul in the short 
but solemn experience of that hour at 
the horse-race. Many faults and follies 
of his short life rose up before him as 
plainly as if written out in words before 
his eyes, and condemned him as a sinner 
in God’s sight, but over against each 
trespass was set in even clearer charac- 
ters the promises of love and pardon 
through God’s own Son. 

Many texts which Sandy had heard 
read in the kirk from Sunday to Sunday, 
or had learned to repeat years before 
word by word at his mother’s knee, came 
to him now with a meaning they had 
never possessed before. Chief among 
them was the verse, ‘‘ For God so loved 
the world that he gave liis only begot- 


THE HORSE-RACE. 


169 


ten Son, that whosoever believeth in him 
should not perish, but have everlasting 
life.’’ Hitherto the word “ world ” had 
been the prominent one of the text. The 
only idea it had given him was that God 
liad done a great thing for his whole 
creation in sending Christ to die. It 
was a glorious thing, to be sure — a thing 
for ministers to preach about and learned 
people to talk about — but that he, Sandy 
Cameron, just one boy out of the millions 
living on the earth, had no special inter- 
est in. The life of Christ upon eartlj, 
his miracles, and suffering, and death, — 
he had read and heard of these always 
with wonder and admiration just as he 
had read and heard of the great deeds 
of Napoleon and Alexander, and of the 
two heroes greater than any others in 
the heart of a patriotic Scotch boy, 
Bruce and Wallace. Some reflection of 
his mother’s reverence for the Bible had 
made him feel that the Savioifr of the 
world was to be held in awe beyond any 


15 


170 


SANDY CAMERON. 


mere human hero. But that was all ; 
Sandy’s knowledge of that text reached 
no farther than God so loved the 
world.” To-day his mind lingered on 
the whosoever.” 

Over and over again, as he walked 
along the street that afternoon, the 
words repeated themselves in his heart : 
“ Whosoever believeth in him should not 
perish, but have everlasting life.” Sure- 
ly, surely, on that day, in that hour, 
when he had been saved from a fearful 
death, that whosoever ” meant not the 
wbrld, not even the people of Edin- 
burgh, but his very own self. He be- 
lieved — he could not help believing — in 
Jesus Christ his Saviour, and therefore 
he knew that the promise also was his, 
that, so believing, he should not perish, 
but have everlasting life. That wonder- 
ful text ! Sandy had known it — known 
it by heart, he would have said — for 
years, yet this was the first time he had 
got it in his heart, the first time he had 


THE HOESE-EACE. 


171 


really known how to look at it. Oh 
how much those few’^ words mean when 
applied to the Bible ! 

A little girl once said to her teacher, 
w^hen urged to study the New Testa- 
ment, ‘‘ What is the use ? I have read 
it all through five or six times, and I 
know it perfectly.’’ You see she looked 
at it very much as she might a lesson in 
history — words to be remembered. There 
are a great many people who think more 
of God’s word than that little girl did 
who have nevertheless never learned the 
true way of looking at it. To some it 
is a series of rules which they must try 
and obey, to others a store-house of 
curious questions of doctrine for learned 
people to quarrel over ; to some the Bi- 
ble is a very proper thing to have in the 
house, beautifully bound and lying on 
the parlour table, while to true-hearted 
Christians it is as daily meat and drink ; 
it is their wisdom, their wealth, their 
comfort, their hope, and they are ready 


172 


SANDY CAMERON. 


to exclaim, with King David, The law 
of thy mouth is better unto me than 
thousands of gold and silver.” Let us 
never, never be satisfied with our know- 
ledge of the Bible until we have so 
learned to look at it. 

Speaking of the study of the precious 
word of God, there is a little book called 
“Kenneth Forbes”* that throws much 
light upon it, and brings a beautiful 
meaning out of verses that you might 
pass over rapidly, never thinking there 
was anything but words in them. Sandy 
had never seen it, for I do not know 
that it ever found its way across the 
ocean to Scotland. His own experience, 
however, that day had done more than 
any book could do. to make him under- 
stand the great gospel truths. The 
reading of “Kenneth Forbes” and a 
hundred other good books may indeed 
instruct, but it is only the heart turned 
in love and gratitude toward God, as was 

* Published by tlie American Sunday-school Union. 


THE HORSE-RACE. 


173 


Sandy’s that day, which can truly un- 
derstand the meaning of the gospel, and 
joyfully say to itself that verse of his : 

God so loved the world that he gave 
his only begotten Son, that whosoever 
believeth in him should not perish, but 
have everlasting life.” 

When Sandy went home that day, he 
helped his mother as usual, ate his sup- 
per, and then sat down to study his 
lesson. He did not say a word about 
the great event which had marked that 
afternoon to him as one never to be for- 
gotten in time or eternity, for Sandy was 
a Scotch lad, and had in full measure the 
national characteristic of reserve. Even 
when Mr. Cameron came in and began 
wishing for the evening paper, that he 
might see the result of the race, scolding 
also about the press of work that had pre- 
vented him from going to see it, Sandy 
refrained from speaking. By and by a 
neighbour came in to have a friendly chat, 
and the first remark he made was : 


174 


SANDY CAMERON. 


‘‘Well, Mr. Cameron, that boy of 
yours had a pretty narrow escape at the 
race, didn’t he ? Dreadful calamity, that, 
to the Magees and Macphersons — I am 
acquainted with both families — to have 
each of them a son brought home dead. 
Sandy, there, had the sense to keep cool. 
He saw in a moment where the danger 
lay, and avoided it. A long head the 
lad has got, I must say. I noticed you 
were not there, Cameron. No doubt it 
gave you a fright, when you heard of the 
accident, to think how near it might 
have come to you, eh ?” 

The man went on talking thus, without 
seeming to notice the startled expression 
in the faces of his hearers. Sandy rose 
and left the room. The subject was too 
sacred for him to endure hearing it 
spoken of in a common way. The 
Leith sands were to him henceforth the 
same as Bethel was to the patriarch Ja- 
cob — the place where he had first seen 
God. To people generally they might 


THE HORSE-KACE. 


175 


continue the city of Luz in the one case, 
the race-course in the other, but to 
ancient patriarch and young Scotch lad 
alike Bethel, the holy place, the very 
gate of heatven. 

“ Do you tell us, neighbour, that our 
Sandy was in such danger? — that two 
other boys were killed asked Mr. 
Cameron. ‘‘ Surely you are mistaken ; 
it was somebody that resembled him.” 

Indeed, it was your Sandy, and no 
one else, that just escaped being tram- 
pled to death by one of the horses at the 
race.” 

And so the man went on to tell of the 
boys being seen on the beach gathering 
cockles, of their coming up just in time 
to meet the horses, of the attempts of the 
other two to fly from the danger, and of 
Sandy’s superior presence of mind in 
standing still. 

The parents listened with much agi- 
tation to this account. It seemed, while 
they hung upon the narrator’s lips, as if 


176 


SANDY CAMERON. 


they had just received their son, given 
back from the very jaws of death. 

‘‘A cool-headed, sensible youngster, 
that boy of yours, Cameron,” said the 
man, in conclusion. ‘‘You ought to 
feel proud of him.” 

“ I don’t look at it in just that light,” 
said the father, who, now that the danger 
was past, felt somewhat angry with his 
son for having put himself in its way. 
“ Boys like that have no business to be 
running about the streets and following 
every crowd. I hope it will be a lesson 
to Sandy, and teach him to keep out of 
the way of races and the like.” 

“ Boys will be boys, you know, neigh- 
bour,” said the other. 

Mrs. Cameron had just regained her 
composure sufficiently to speak. 

“ Husband,” said she, putting her 
hand gently on his arm, “ I think, in- 
stead of praising our boy for his pres- 
ence of mind and coolness or blamino^ 
him for going to see the race, we should 


THE HORSE-RACE. 


177 


thank God for preserving him in the 
midst of danger, and ask him to make it 
the means of turning the lad’s heart to 
his love and service.” 

Amen !” responded a low voice be- 
hind her. 

Turning round, the mother saw the 
serious face of him they had been talk- 
ing about. With a sudden impulse of 
affection, springing from the thought of 
his danger and deliverance, she put her 
arms about his neck and kissed him, 
then gazed steadily in his eyes, as if to 
make sure that she, and not death, held 
possession of him. That mute glance * 
between mother and son revealed the 
thoughts of each heart, and without a 
spoken word Mrs. Cameron understood 
that her desire was fully granted, that 
the peril which might have brought sor- 
row to that household had been God’s 
messenger of great mercy, in that Sandy 
had been taught through the danger 
the right way to look at it. 


178 


SANDY CAMERON. 


The next morning, when Mr. Came- 
ron had gone to his work, leaving the 
mother and son alone together, the for- 
mer said : 

“ Tell me, Sandy, all about what hap- 
pened yesterday. I have heard it from 
Mr. Brown, it is true, but I want to hear 
the story from your own lips.” 

Then Sandy with a tremulous voice 
repeated to her the substance of what 
has been already told ; and as he finished 
the account of his preservation he ex- 
claimed, with deep feeling : 

Oh, mother, mother, why is it that 
• they are taken and I am left? Why 
was not I killed ? Why, out of three, 
am I the only one alive to-day?” 

That question continued to be the 
burden of Sandy’s thoughts for a long 
time. On his way to and from school, 
while busy with his pencil at the statue 
gallery, and even when waking in the 
night, the thought haunted him : “ Why 
were they taken and I left ?” 


CHAPTER XIV. 

PROVING THE ARMOUR. 

N real life events come slowly and 
far between. Months and years 
pass on^ silently; nothing seems 
to happen. We eat and drink, 
work and play and study, are sorry and 
glad again ; we get almost tired of the 
sameness, and wish for a change. In 
books one occurrence follows another 
rapidly, for books are like photography, 
crowding a lifeful of events into one 
group, and taking a picture of all at once ; 
but the true history of any one person is 
like a careful painting, very gradually 
worked out, and with many little touches 
here and there which one cannot see the 
use of until the great Artist shows it all 
complete. 

There were three or four years of 



180 


SANDY CAMEDON. 


Sandy Cameron’s boyhood which seemed 
to have very little in them. He went to 
school for some time and diligently 
studied at the Hoyal Institution, acquir- 
ing such skill in the use of his pencil 
that some of his sketches were placed on 
exhibition in Edinburgh and brought 
him many encouraging words from peo- 
ple who saw the talent tliey revealed, and 
a little money. By and by Mr. Came- 
ron, never a prosperous man, declared 
that Sandy was getting too old to be 
wasting his time with books and pic- 
tures, and must begin doing something 
to help support the family. 

It was a change by no means pleasant 
to the boy when he gave up school and 
the precious hours for drawing, and be- 
came an apprentice in a printing-office. 
This was not sifrely the road to that 
future of which he had dreamed years 
ago as he sat gazing in the fire and 
building air castles, and of which he 
had spoken to the good gentleman on the 


PROVING THE ARMOUR. 


181 


boat during that happy season among the 
Highlands. But Sandy, as we have al- 
ready learned, had gained a truer way 
of looking at things than through the 
medium of his own wishes. 

Mr. Cameron thought he was doing 
the best thing possible for his son in get- 
ting him into so good a situation ; his 
wife, looking deeper than he, felt sorry 
for Sandy’s disappointment, and kept on 
hoping that the way would yet be opened 
for him to become an artist. 

Sandy’s fellow-apprentices in the 
printing-office were most of them rough 
fellows. They used coarse language and 
thought it manly to smoke and drink, to 
waste their money and their time — a 
queer idea of manliness, indeed, but, 
^las ! a very common one. It was not 
long before these boys began to notice 
that the new apprentice blushed at some 
of their speeches and looked grave at 
others, that he never tried to shirk his 
duty, and that when work was over he 
16 


182 


SANDY CAM|:R0N. 


went directly home. Instead of respect- 
ing him for these things, they began to 
make fun of him. Now, if there is any 
one thing harder than another for a boy 
to endure, it is ridicule, and Sandy felt 
sometimes as if he would rather join in 
the reckless talk of his companions and 
accompany them to the taverns they fre- 
quented than to continue the butt of 
their jokes. He heard himself called 
“ Saint Cameron he caught one of the 
apprentices mimicking him for the 
amusement of the rest; he found at 
another time an absurd caricature of 
himself chalked on the wall ; and 
indeed almost daily some new trial of 
his faithfulness arose. Here was the 
conflict between Christ and the world 
that has to be fought in some form or 
other in every human soul. The sensi- 
tiveness to ridicule which was one of 
Sandy’s weak points was the very one 
the devil would fain have made use of to 
turn him aside from duty. 


PROVING THE ARMOUR. 


183 


Nobody knows but those who have 
passed through the same sort of trial 
how hard it was for this boy to keep a 
grave face sometimes when a hearty 
laugh would have been accepted by his 
comrades as a pledge of good-fellowship, 
and have taken away the dislike in which 
he was held. But then to laugh at a 
low jest or a story of sin would have 
been to prove traitor to the Lord’s cause 
— would have put such a stain upon his 
heart that he could not have met his 
mother’s eye again without a fear that 
she would see it and despise him for it. 

Sandy’s experience in the printing- 
office was doing him good in a way that 
he did not appreciate. Ever since that 
memorable day at the horse-race he had 
been trying to lead a Christian life. At 
school and at home everything had 
passed along so evenly and quietly that 
being good had seemed an easy and nat- 
ural thing. He had buckled on his 
Christian armour, but, like David with 


184 


SANDY CAMERON. 


Saules helmet of brass and coat of mail, 
lie was not sure he could fight success- 
fully therewith because he had not proved 
it. And as a soldier whose uniform had 
never been soiled and torn by real ser- 
vice on the battle-field might feel vain of 
his buttons and epaulettes, so Sandy felt 
puffed up by the fact that he was a mem- 
ber of the church, a professed Christian. 
It gave him a thrill of satisfaction when 
any discussion arose between his parents 
involving a question of right and wrong 
that his mother always asked his opinion, 
and was wont to strengthen her asser- 
tions by saying, You see that Sandy 
thinks as I do, so you will have to give 
up.” The teacher, too, having confi- 
dence in Sandy’s principles, often put 
him in responsible positions toward the 
other scholars, and unwisely spoke of 
him to the rest as a pattern to be fol- 
lowed. 

Very sweet and very perilous was all 
this to one who enjoved the approval of 


PROVING THE ARMOUR. 185 

others as did Sandy. He was in danger 
of becoming a Pharisee. The change 
from school to printing-office came just 
in time to prevent this. All that he had 
prided himself on at home and at school 
was turned into ridicule by his new 
companions. What had been his glory 
" was now his shame. Poor fellow ! it was 
a hard discipline, but then it was very 
useful. I donT know that Sandy came to 
look upon that experience in just the 
right way until a good many years after. 

The other apprentices again and again 
invited him to go with them to get a 
drink. He refused these requests posi- 
tively, and at last almost angrily. He 
did not deserve much credit for not 
wanting to drink, for he had seen so 
much of the misery caused by intoxica- 
tion in his own liome in former days that 
a thorough dislike of all kinds of liquor 
had grown upon him. The glass of 
whisky proffered him had in itself no 
temptation at all, but the contemptuous 
16 * 


186 


SANDY CAMERON. 


pity with which the other apprentices re- 
garded a fellow who was afraid to 
drink ’’ was one of the hardest kind. 

“Come on, Cameron; we’re all going 
to Clarke’s to get something warm this 
cold night,” called out Ned Fisher, the 
sharpest of all the boys for a joke on 
Sandy, and so, of course, the one he 
most feared. “ Come along ; we’re re- 
solved not to let you off this time; we 
want to see you happy enough for once 
to enjoy a laugh, like the rest of us. 
‘All work and no play makes Jack a dull 
boy,’ you know.” 

“ Oh yes, of course you’ll come,” said 
two or three, speaking together. 

“ No, I never drink ; I have already - 
told you so often enough. You need not 
ask me again, for I’m as firm as a rock 
on that subject. Good-night, all.” 

So saying, Sandy turned away in a 
manner meant to be very dignified, and 
took a step or two on his way toward 
home. 


PROVING THE ARMOUR. 


187 


A loud laugh from the group behind 
him made his cheeks burn, and a voice 
the exact counterpart of his own drawl- 
ing out, ‘‘ Ihn as firm as a rock on that 
subject,” brought an angry retort to his 
lips that was very hard to repress. He 
had not taken many steps when he sud- 
denly felt his arms pinioned and his 
body grasped by strong hands — he knew 
well enough whose they were — and thus 
powerless, he was borne back to the spot 
from which he started. 

‘‘ Are you comfortable, Cameron ? — 
‘ firm as a rock,’ eh ?” said somebody he 
could not see, but whose voice he rec- 
ognized as that of Ned Fisher. 

You are actually shivering with cold, 
old fellow,” said another, in mock sym- 
pathy. ‘‘ We’ll soon provide you with a 
tonic to warm you up ; and if your 
mother should smell your breath, you 
can say you were obliged to take it as a 
medicine.” 

At this speech they all laughed — all 


188 


SANDY CAMERON. 


but their victim, who was indeed shiver- 
ing, but with excitement, and not cold. 

This allusion to his mother made 
Sandy fierce. He was almost ready to 
consent to drink with them for the sake 
of putting a stop to their merriment, 
which had dared even to thrust a joke 
at his mother. What if he did drink 
just this once? They would let him 
alone afterward, and stop twitting him 
of cowardice and unmanliness. The 
temptation was strong. One glass would 
not hurt him, and there would be no 
wrong in it, because he would not be tak- 
ing it of his own will, but under compul- 
sion. But before they reached the place 
spoken of as Clarke’s,’^ Sandy fought 
his thought with one short, swift prayer 
for strength, and so he conquered. 

The boys paused before the door, and 
while one held it open the others pulled 
their prisoner toward it. 

‘‘ You may lead a horse to water, boys, 
but you can’t make him drink,” said 


PROVING THE ARMOUR. 


189 


Sandy, with a ring of decision in his 
voice that made an impression on the 
others. 

“What an obstinate donkey!’^ ex- 
claimed one. “ I say, boys, what’s the 
use ? Let’s have our drink without his 
long face and prosy speeches to spoil the 
fun. We’ll never get a drop down his 
throat ; and if we did, it would be a waste 
of good liquor.” 

This speech turned the tide ; and those 
who a moment previous had been using 
all their strength to get Sandy within 
the door now took their hands off him 
and allowed him to go. 

Sandy walked home that night with 
a very humble opinion of himself. He 
had almost given way to a temptation that 
he had hitherto scorned as quite unable 
to reach him ; he had never thought 
so ill of himself since he began trying 
to be a Christian. It might be that 
that was the very thing that God meant 
by allowing the events of that evening to 


190 


SANDY CAMERON. 


liappen, since even our temptations may 
by his blessing become stepping-stones 
on which we may ascend toward heaven. 
That is, I think, the true way to look 
at it. Sandy, however, was too down- 
cast that night to view the event in that 
light, and it was as well for him to be so. 
He felt the temptation he had just es- 
caped from like a burden on his con- 
science, pressing him down to the earth 
with a sense of disgrace, instead of a 
stepping-stone under his feet. 

It was a fact worthy of notice that 
after that night he never boasted again 
of being ‘‘ firm as a rock ” on the subject 
of temperance, although, to all but his 
own consciousness, he had really shown 
himself so. But he had at last proved 
his Christian armour, and had found 
himself too weak to manage it. 


CHAPTER Xy. 

THE SEA SPRITES 

VESSEL was ploughing her way 
through the waves of the Atlan- 
tic with no indication from what 
country she came or whither she- 
was bound. Sailors representing half a 
dozen different nations were busy at the 
ropes ; passengers scattered about the 
deck in little groups showed in their 
speech, countenances, and costumes the 
various portions of Europe from whence 
they had come to form this little company 
on board the barque “ Sea Sprite.’’ The 
captain and mate, with their Highland 
caps and peculiar brogue, might, how- 
ever, have suggested to a looker-on that 
the vessel was probably from a Scotch 
port; and standing near them at the 
moment I have in mind as I begin this 



192 


SANDY CAMERON. 


chapter, one might have heard one say 
to the other how fine the voyage had 
been, seeing that seventeen days previ- 
ous they had shaken hands with friends 
in Glasgow, and that, if the wind should 
continue favourable, they could hardly 
fail to arrive at New York in twenty- 
four hours more. 

Faix, an^ I can’t sae what the ocean 
iver was made for at all, at all,” said a 
desponding woman whose ruddy face 
and stout figure betokened a person in the 
enjoyment of good health, if not of good 
spirits. “Ameriky may be the land of 
plenty they say it is ; but if I’d known 
how the very sowl was to be pitched an’ 
tossed out o’ me with tryin’ to reach it, 
niver, niver would I have put me feet 
aboard ship to go there — not even for the 
sake of poor Mike, that’s been writin’ 
and writin’ for me to come to him this 
two year. Bad luck to it !” groaned the 
woman, in conclusion, as the vessel gave 
a sudden lurch to one side. 


193 


! THE ‘^SEA SPRITE.’’ 

‘‘Now, now, Mrs. Maloney, I think 
you are too ’ard on the sea. When we 
started, hi was so hill that hi could 
’ardly ’old hup my ’ead, hand now hi 
feel as strong as h’anybody. My h’opin- 
ion is that the h’ocean is a great blessing 
to mankind.” 

This speech came from a slender, pale- 
faced man, a shoemaker, who, having 
lost his health while working at his 
trade, had resolved to try and get em- 
ployment in America, where he had 
heard that wages were higher and the 
climate better for his complaint. 

“ H’it’s not h’agreeable, surely, to be 
pitched hand tossed h’about, h’as you 
were saying; still, h’it may be a h’ex- 
cellent thing for one’s ’ealth,” continued 
the cheerful Cockney. 

“ I am glad you can take comfort in 
it, Mr. Thompson. Sure, an’ I believe 
y’are looking a hape better than that 
first day ye spake to me. But it’s 
weary I am, looking at nothing but the 

17 If 


194 


SANDY CAMERON. 


say an’ the sky these two wakes an’ 
more.” 

A young man who had been walking 
up and down the deck for some mo- 
ments as rapidly as the motion would 
admit paused as his ear caught the last 
desponding words of the stout Irish wo- 
man : 

“ Ah, Mrs. Maloney ! are you still 
regretting that you took passage on the 
‘Sea Sprite’? The vessel is no’ sae 
comfortable as our ain home, to be sure, 
but still we may be thankfu’ for the guid 
wind that’s bringing us very near the 
end o’ our journey. I heard the captain 
say just now that if all’s well we may 
see New York in two days’ time.” 

“ There, now !” said the pale-faced 
Englishman ; “ here’s Mr. Cameron 

telling you h’almost the same thing 
I did. Take a more cheerful view of 
things, Mrs. Maloney, and the voyage 
will not seem so tedious. Two days will 
soon be over, hand no doubt you’ll find 


THE ^^SEA SPRITE.” 


195 


your disband waiting for you the mo- 
ment you set foot on shore in New 
York.” 

“Ay, that’s the way to look at it, 
Mrs. Maloney,” said the other. “ You 
see, Mr. Thompson’s ship fare and 
rolling about have quite improved his 
health, an’ nae doot his cheerful way o’ 
taking the troubles o’ the voyage has 
done as much to strengthen him as the 
sea air.” 

So saying, the speaker turned away 
and resumed his exercise; and as he 
paced the deck he hummed snatches 
of a little song that had often helped 
him, when he was down-hearted, to a 
brighter view of things. It began : 

“ ‘ Confide ye aye in Providence, for Providence is kind, 

And bear ye a’ life’s changes wi’ a calm and tranquil 
mind ; 

Though pressed and hemmed on every side, hae faith 
and ye’ll win through. 

For ilka blade o’ grass keeps its ain drap o’ dew.’ ” 


“ The puir young man !” said Mrs. 


196 


SANDY CAMERON^ 


Maloney as she and her companion 
watched him walk away. 

Why do you say that ? ^As Mr. 
Cameron ’ad h’any trouble ?” 

‘‘Shure, an’ he has. I was askin’ him 
yesterday how he came by that band of 
crape on his hat, an’ he told me that he 
had lately lost his mother, an’ that, his 
home in Edinburgh bein’ broke up, he 
was on his way to Ameriky, where he 
has a sister, married and settled there 
these many years.” 

‘‘ H’indeed ! Well, hi ’ope there is 
good luck waiting for him there, for 
Mr. Cameron is a kind hand sensible 
person, h’always ready with a pleasant 
word. Hi wish there was more like ’im 
in the world.” 

“ Faix, an’ so do I,” said Mrs. Malo- 
ney. 

The Irish woman’s report was correct. 
Our friend Sandy had lately passed 
through a* great affliction. The dear 
mother who had shared every pleasure 


197 


ME ‘^SEA SPKITE.” 

and sorrow of his boyhood, to whom he 
had ever looked for guidance and en- 
couragement, and in regard to whom all 
his ambitious plans for the future had 
been laid, was no more. 

How common the story ! how few the 
words needed to tell it ! There had 
been the simple announcement in the 
Edinburgh paper one morning that Mrs. 
James Cameron had died quite suddenly 
the day previous of heart disease, and 
that the funeral would take place the 
following noon from her late residence 
on High street. Thousands of readers 
scanned the lines without a thought of 
the mother and wife thus taken away or 
the desolate home she had left. The few 
friends who had known and respected 
Mrs. Cameron read them with regret, and 
noted the hour named at which they 
might prove their friendship by being 
present at the final ceremonies ; the 
married sons and daughters of the family 
read the words with sorrow and surprise ; 


198 


SANDY CAMERON. 


but Sandy through blinding tears looked 
at the printed notice of his bereavement 
as if that made the loss more real and 
substantial, then cut out the bit of paper 
that meant so much to him and pasted it 
inside the cover of his mother’s Bible, 
which he claimed henceforth as his own. 

The few articles of furniture belonging 
to the family were sold, the rooms which 
had been home were vacated. Mr. Cam- 
eron went to live with one of his sons, 
and Sandy for a few weeks lingered in 
the neighbourhood, boarding with some 
people who occupied a flat in an adjoin- 
ing house, that he might be near to the 
printing-ofiice, where he still worked. 
Then a letter came from Mrs. Archer, 
the sister who had married and gone to 
America many years before, begging that 
Sandy would come over to New York at 
once and make his home with her and 
her husband. As they had no children 
and were pretty well off, it would be a 
pleasure, said Sister Margaret, to consider 


THE ^^SEA SPEITEJ 


199 


Sandy their own, to provide for so far as 
was necessary, and to make happy in 
every w^ay possible. 

Thus it came about that Sandy was 
one of the passengers on board the “Sea 
Sprite ’’ on this trip, and that the kindly 
sympathies of Mrs. Maloney were aroused 
in his behalf. 

The captain had said, and Sandy had 
repeated to Mrs. Maloney, that if all 
went well the “ Sea Sprite ” would be 
anchored off New York in two days 
from the time of the conversation we 
have recorded. But all did not go well. 
The next afternoon, while the passen- 
gers sat on deck, as usual, reading or 
talking or else lounging on the seats in 
languid enjoyment of the soft, pleasant 
air, the captain took his glass and gazed 
long and anxiously toward the north- 
west. Sandy watched his motions with 
wonder. He had no thought of danger 
when everything seemed so serene. 

Pretty soon the captain put down his 


200 


SANDY CAMERON. 


glass, and then came the orders, quick, 
sharp, concise, to reef all the sails and 
lay to the ship. As rapidly as the 
thunder succeeds the lightning’s flash the 
commands were obeyed. The sailors 
ran about the deck and climbed the 
rigging, and the commander’s will was 
performed as if the crew had been so 
many springs in a system of machinery, 
to be wound up and set going when and 
how he pleased. 

The passengers all ceased their talk, 
their reading, their lounging, and went 
below — not that they comprehended the 
meaning of all this commotion, but be- 
cause it made them uncomfortable, and 
they knew they were in the way. 

“ For iver an iver they’re twisting 
thim sails about and disturbin’ us with 
their noise,” complained Mrs. Maloney to 
whoever was near enough to hear. “ Shure, 
an’ if I was onct back in me ould home. 
I’d niver set foot on a ship agen so long 
as me name was Ellen Maloney.” 


THE ‘‘SEA SPRITE. 


201 


Tliere were others, no doubt, that felt 
as uncomfortable and as weary of sea- 
life as did the grumbling Irish woman ; 
but if so, they did not express their feel- 
ings so loudly. 

In a short time the soft, pleasant 
breeze grew and swelled into an angry 
gale. Like smooth words concealing 
evil tempers, the deception lasted but a 
short time, and then the real character 
appeared on the surface. The gale that 
presently lashed the “ Sea Sprite ’’ hither 
and thither acted like a giant who had 
come across a boy’s top and meant to 
have a real rough play with it. Nobody 
could eat much supper that night. A 
few were brave enough to try, but their 
cups of tea were dashed in their faces or 
poured in their laps by the motion of the 
vessel, and the food put on one’s plate 
was less likely to reach his mouth than 
to slide across the table to somebody else. 
It was a time for “ many a slip ’twixt 
cuj) and lip.” These slight inconveni- 


202 


SANDY CAMERON. 


ences set the livelier part of the com- 
pany to laughing and joking with a care- 
lessness that formed a strange contrast to 
the solemn tones of the captain’s voice as 
he ordered the men about on deck — sol- 
emn in that he knew how, under Prov- 
idence, all these lives depended that 
night upon his skill and presence of 
mind. 

Sandy, having never been on the ocean 
before, knew little of the peril of the 
hour, and was glad in a boyish fashion 
for this opportunity of experiencing a 
storm at sea. He went to his berth 
rather earlier than usual, because it was 
tiresome to be knocked about so, and 
obliged to hold on to something all the 
time for support. He uttered a short 
prayer, as usual, for the safety of all on 
board, but without the earnestness that 
grows out of a sense of great and 
immediate necessity. Then he repeated 
to himself the grand and beautiful verses 
which his memory picked out here and 


THE “sea sprite. 


203 


there from the Psalms as appropriate to 
the occasion. 

“ The floods have lifted up, O Lord, 
the floods have lifted up their voice ; the 
floods lift up their waves.” 

“ The Lord on high is mightier than 
the noise of many waters, yea than the 
mighty waves of the sea.” 

“They that go down to the sea in 
ships, that do business in great waters ; 

“ These see the works of the Lord and 
his wonders in the deep : 

“ For he commandeth, and raiseth the 
stormy wind, which lifteth up the waves 
thereof. 

“ They mount up to the heaven, they 
go down again to the depths : their soul 
is melted because of trouble.” 

The holy words meant more to Sandy 
from the interpretation given them by 
his circumstances ; and when, with these 
descriptions of God’s power, came to his 
mind also the verse, “For this God is 
our God for ever and ever : he will be 


204 


SANDY CAMEEON. 


our guide even unto death,” the boy felt 
comforted and soothed, and a sense of 
security stole over him such as comes to 
little children who drop asleep in the 
mother’s arms with the sound of her 
lullaby in their ears. 

For several hours Sandy slept tran- 
quilly, in spite of the furious wind and 
the hurrying footsteps overhead ; then, 
with a sudden start, he woke, and in- 
stinctively clenched the side of his berth 
for support. He could not tell then or 
afterward what it was that roused him 
at that instant. All he comprehended 
was a fearful gurgling sound of water 
very near him, a sensation of stiffness 
and soreness, a confused mingling of 
voices, horrible beyond the imagination 
of those who have never known mo- 
ments of extreme danger. There were 
frightful yells of despair ; there were 
oaths even more frightful uttered by 
tongues that were unconsciously pro- 
nouncing their last words; there were 


THE ‘^SEA SPRITE. 


205 


piteous cries for help and broken prayers 
for mercy and pardon. Nobody in that 
sinking ship gave a thought to the fact 
of the presence of others. Each soul 
felt itself alone with death and God. 

Sandy struggled for a position of greater 
security, but gave it up. All around 
were struggling vainly. Darkness, in- 
tense darkness, a motion which no hu- 
man strength could master, the awful 
roar of the tempest above, the sickening 
sound of vast waters below, ready to 
swallow the little company in their un- 
known hopeless depths, a certainty of 
death, a thrill of hope, of faith in a 
Kedeemer, — formed the experience of 
Sandy Cameron during that period on 
the sinking “ Sea Sprite.’’ How many 
hours or moments or seconds it took to 
think it all he never knew. In fact, for 
several weeks after, he could not have 
told even as vaguely as I have the events 
of that night. 

The next day newsboys with extras 
18 


206 


SANDY CAMEKON. 


were running about the streets of New 
York, crying at the top of their shrill 
voices something about ‘‘ the wreck of 
the ‘Sea Sprite’ off Barnegat,” “great 
loss of life,” etc., and people who had 
property or friends on board the lost 
vessel were anxiously inquiring for par- 
ticulars. A number of bodies had been 
washed ashore and picked up dead, a few 
persons had clung to floating planks from 
the vessel and had reached the shore, 
exhausted, but with enough life in them 
to make recovery possible. 

The horror and distress of such times 
may indeed be pictured on the painter’s 
canvas or described by the narrator’s 
pen, but only those who have themselves 
passed through periods which bring hu- 
man souls as near the borders of eternity 
as is possible without loosing them en- 
tirely from the life upon earth can truly 
comprehend the emotions of the few 
survivors from the wreck of the “Sea 
Sprite.” The fable about the cofiin of 


THE ‘^SEA sprite; 


207 


Mohammed suspended, his followers say, 
halfway between earth and heaven, comes 
to mind as an illustration of such states. 
I think, in times of illness or great 
trouble, God lets our spirits rest thus, — 
the pain and grief all below and the 
peace and glory around, above, and all- 
pervading us, — so that we come in a little 
measure to understand what St. Paul 
meant when he wrote : 

“ For our light affliction, which is but 
for a moment, worketh for us a far more 
exceeding and eternal weight of glory ; 

“ While we look not at the things 
which are seen, but at the things which 
are not seen : for the things which are 
seen are temporal ; but the things which 
are not seen are eternal.’’ 


CHAPTER XVI. 


A DOUBLE DEBT. 

MAGINE a room in one of the 
spacious houses in the upper part 
of New York, the October sun- 
shine peering in through large 
panes of glass, but unable, because of the 
heavy curtains at the windows, to do 
more than make lines of brightness 
along the carpet — railroad tracks the 
children call them. Believe that you 
see there a low cushioned chair with a 
lady of middle age occupying it, her 
fingers busy with some pretty fancy- 
work, her face full of a calm soft light — 
a light that does for the face just what 
the October sunshine does for the room, 
puts a beauty and pleasantness and 
meaning into every part of it, making 
208 



A DOUBLE DEBT. 


209 


you think less of the nose, eyes, and 
mouth in one case, and of the tables and 
chairs in the other, than of the influence 
they exert upon you. Look again in 
imagination, and you find a sofa placed 
beside the wall, quite near to the 
cushioned chair. Over this hangs an 
old-fashioned portrait of a lady, the face 
a trifle more serious and careworn, a 
little older too, but still very like that 
of the present occupant of the arm-chair. 
You cannot fail to recognize it as the 
likeness of one who years ago walked to 
market hand in hand with her little son, 
and sat at her sewing while he talked to 
her of his pictures and studies in the 
evenings in the plain little sitting-room 
of a certain flat on Bread street, Edin- 
burgh. 

There is somebody lying on the sofa, 
motionless and covered with shawls, so 
that you can discern only a mass of 
curling auburn hair gleaming on the 
white pillow, and the forehead and closed 
18 * 0 


210 


SANDY CAMERON. 


eyes of the sleeper; but from the por- 
trait and one or two other suggestions, 
you cannot fail to recognize the persons 
and the place. 

The clock on the mantel ticked on and 
on ; it seemed like a very noisy, self- 
asserting clock, but that was just because 
everything else was so still. By and by 
the lady paused in her work and glanced 
at its face, then quietly laid aside the 
bright wools out of which she was fash- 
ioning some pretty article, took up a 
tumbler with a spoon in it, and stood a 
moment beside the sofa, as if hesitating 
whether or not to waken the invalid. 
But as she gazed, undecided, the sleep- 
er’s eyelids trembled and his breathing 
became less regular. 

‘‘ Mother, mother !” came feebly from 
the pale lips ; “ let me hae a wee drap o’ 
water, mother.” 

The tears gathered in the lady’s eyes 
as she heard the half-dreaming words, 
and recalled that voice which was hushed 


A DOUBLE DEBT. 


211 


in death, but she stroked the bright hair 
on the pillow and said, tenderly : 

‘‘ Mother’s not here to wait on you, 
Sandy, but somebody that God has left 
to fill her place as well as she can, my 
poor boy. Rouse up now, and take a 
spoonful of medicine for me, and then 
you shall have a drink of water.” 

The eyes opened fully at this, and 
looked into those of the speaker. Then, 
with a contraction of the brow that 
showed how painful the motion was, 
Sandy raised himself to a sitting posture 
and took the medicine from his sister’s 
hand. 

Does your side hurt you as badly as 
ever?” asked Mrs. Archer. 

“ Not quite so much as it did yester- 
day. I feel so sore and full of pain, 
and so very, very weak. What do you 
think is the reason of it?” 

‘‘ Surely it is not very hard to account 
for your weakness and pain, Sandy ; it 
is just a wonder to me that you are in 


212 


SANDY CAMERON. 


this world at all. When Mr. Archer 
and I first saw you, stretched on a mat- 
tress in the hut of that old fisherman at 
Barnegat, we hardly dared hope that 
you would live to be brought home, or 
that we ever should hear your voice and 
see a natural look in your eyes. But 
prayer has done great things for us, 
Sandy.” 

The only reply Mrs. Archer received 
was a pressure from her brother’s hand 
as firm as the thin, weak fingers were 
able to bestow ; and then he turned away 
and closed his eyes, this time not to 
sleep, but to think, more connectedly 
than he had yet been able to do, about 
the night of the shipwreck, the circum- 
stances of this his second great preserva- 
tion. What lesson did God mean to 
teach him this time ? In what way was 
he to look at it ? 

Sandy was not one to jump at conclu- 
sions. He was slow in decision, slow in 
execution, but like a true Scotchman, 


A DOUBLE DEBT. 


213 


when once his mind was made up on any 
subject, he was firm, even obstinate. 
His thoughts went back now to the first 
great era of his life, the horse-race on 
the Leith sands. Then he had heard 
his heavenly Father’s voice saying as 
plainly as if in spoken words : “ My son, 
give me thy heart.” He had obeyed, 
not thoroughly, to be sure, not as in that 
hour upon the sinking ship he wished 
he had done, but still, as I have said, it 
had been the turning-point of his life. 
He had ever since been a passive, every- 
day sort of Christian, had enjoyed hear- 
ing sermons and singing hymns, had 
often felt, while upon his knees in prayer, 
a sense of communion with his Saviour 
that was real happiness. Now, Sandy 
had, like many wiser people, got in the 
way of thinking that this quiet, selfish 
enjoyment was religion, and had, as a 
general thing, been well satisfied with 
himself because of his good feelings, in- 
stead of receiving them as a gift for 


214 


SANDY CAMERON. 


which to be humbly thankful. This day 
as he lay on the sofa watching the sun- 
shine grow dimmer and more indistinct 
upon the carpet, and hearing the regular 
tick of the clock, while his mother’s 
eyes seemed to gaze wistfully down upon 
him from the portrait, and a Presence 
far greater and holier to fill the room, he 
was taught a new way of looking at it. 

When Mrs. Archer observed her 
brother’s inclination to be quiet, she 
attributed it to his weak state, and 
thought it best not to tempt him to talk 
more than was good for him, so she 
quietly left the room. Sandy did not 
miss her. He had enough company in 
the new thoughts just struggling for ex- 
istence in his heart. His life a second 
time given back to him — should it not be 
devoted in some positive and distinct 
manner as a thank-offering to God? 
Was it not for something more than his 
own selfish aims that twice he had been 
so marvellously rescued? 


A DOUBLE DEBT. 


215 


Sandy was a printer by trade, as we 
know, and an artist by taste. Could be 
by printing or painting render God 
special service ? The words of the good 
gentleman whom he had met on his 
journey to the Highlands recurred to 
him : ‘‘ Perhaps God means that you 
shall serve him by painting pictures.” 
He wished he could be sure the gentle- 
man was right. 

Sandy’s head began to ache, and he 
felt feverish ; it had grown quite dark 
too, and he was tired of being left alone. 
The restlessness peculiar to convales- 
cence seized him, and he was glad when 
footsteps and voices were audible outside 
his door, and in a moment more his sis- 
ter entered, bearing a tray with a tempt- 
ing little supper for him, and close be- 
hind her came Mr. Archer. 

‘‘I have to beg very hard each day 
for admittance to your room, Sandy,” 
said the latter. Margaret rules us 
both, it seems. But I promised to do all 


216 


SANDY CAMERON. 


the talking and not give you a chance to 
put in a word, and on that condition 
she allows me to sit here and see you eat 
your supper. It is well that I have just 
been to dinner, or the sight of that 
morsel of toast and bit of chicken 
would provoke my appetite beyond en- 
durance.” 

Sandy smiled contentedly as he looked 
first at the dainty little meal spread out 
before him, and then in the kind face of 
her who was arranging it so as to be 
within reach of his arm. 

‘‘Your brother Philip don’t know 
what it is to be ill, Sandy,” said she, by 
way of explanation, “ and he comes 
home every night with the hunger of a 
man who has worked hard all day at his 
ofiice, and taken a long walk besides. 
It would fare ill indeed with your sup- 
per if he had to share it with you.” 

Upon this the husband and wife had 
some gay banter between themselves 
which kept Sandy amused, yet did not 


A DOUBLE DEBT. 


217 


oblige him to fatigue himself by taking 
a share in the conversation. 

I have heard a bit of news to-day, 
Maggie, that will grieve you,’’ said Mr. 
Archer, presently, in a more serious 
tone. 

“ What is it, Philip ?” 

‘‘ They say that our pastor is going to 
leave us.” 

‘‘What? Mr. Lane?” 

“ Yes ; I hear that the congregation 
have offered to raise his salary if he will 
only remain, but that no such consider- 
ation will keep him. He is bent on 
sacrificing his comfort and his talents by 
going out among the Indians as a mis- 
sionary.” 

“ Is that indeed so ? But, Philip, is 
it right to use the word ‘ sacrifice ’ when 
speaking of missionary labour ? Mr. 
Lane would not stop to think of his 
comfort when the work of the Lord was 
concerned, and surely you cannot think 
his talents thrown away if by their 

19 


218 


SANDY CAMERON. 


means a single soul is brought into the 
fold of the good Shepherd ? That does 
not sound like you, Philip.’’ 

“ No,” said Mr. Archer ; ‘‘ I should not 
have spoken so. The cause is a noble 
one, and the man who so readily lays 
aside his tastes, his ambition, his com- 
fort, putting himself in the Lord’s hands 
to be used as he wills, is worthy of our 
reverence. I have been told that Mr. 
Lane studied law when a young man, 
and that his friends anticipated his mak- 
ing a mark in that profession. A very 
dear sister of his was taken ill with 
some terrible disease, and the family 
despaired of her recovery. Then this 
brother was led to pray earnestly that 
her life might be spared. The prayer 
was answered ; the young lady got well, 
and Mr. Lane was so impressed by God’s 
goodness to him that he resolved to 
make his life a thank-offering. He 
quitted the study of law, to the great 
disappointment of his family, and at 


A DOUBLE DEBT. 


219 


once began preparing himself for the 
ministry.’’ 

Mr. Archer paused at the conclusion 
of his story, and looked at Sandy. The 
boy was listening with an intentness that 
surprised him. His face was flushed 
and his eyes wide with eager interest. 

‘‘ Margaret, we must not let our in- 
valid sit up any longer. I fear I was 
imprudent to talk so long,” said Mr. 
Archer. ‘‘ Let us have our evening 
prayer together, and then leave him for 
the night.” 

Of course neither Mr. Archer nor his 
wife guessed the peculiar interest which 
the narration of Mr. Lane’s history had 
for Sandy, nor the new idea in regard to 
his own life it had suggested. His last 
waking thought that night was one of 
prayer that the way might b^ made 
plain to him when and where and how 
he could best fulfil his purpose of de- 
voting the remainder of his twice-res- 
cued life to the Lord’s service. 


CHAPTEE XVII. 

UP STAIRS AND DOWN. 

N the course of a few days Sandy 
was able to exchange the sofa for 
the arm-chair, and the afternoon 
sunshine as it peered in the window 
and drew its bright lines along the floor 
was sure to find him sitting directly in 
its way, for his chair was always so 
placed that he could gaze upon his 
mother’s portrait. 

Hours and hours he spent alone while 
his sister was busy with her household 
cares, thinking, or rather letting the 
new thoughts grow within him and 
shape themselves into plans. Again and 
again Mrs. Archer proposed asking some 
of her young acquaintances in to keep 
him company, but Sandy always in- 
sisted that the sound of her voice or 
226 



TJP STAIRS AND DOWN. 


221 


sewing-machine was sufficient to keep 
him from loneliness, and that he would 
wait for other society until he was able 
to be down stairs as one of the family. 

Every hour or so Mrs. Archer would 
look in to see if her invalid needed any- 
thing, and so often she found him ab- 
sorbed in thought, his eyes on the por- 
trait and a far-away smile on his face, 
that she began to wonder if the ship- 
wreck had not affected her brother’s 
mind, and even expressed the doubt to 
her husband, who only laughed at her 
and said it was no uncommon thing for 
the wits of a youngster like him to go 
wool-gathering sometimes. 

At last Sandy was pronounced well 
enough to leave his room. The day 
chosen for his first appearance among 
the family group was Sunday, because 
then Mr. Archer was at home, and the 
enjoyment seemed more complete. Lean- 
ing on the arm of his kind brother-in law, 
Sandy descended the stairs. Everything 


222 


SANDY CAMEEON. 


was strange and new to him in the 
lower part of the house, for he had 
been brought there too ill to notice 
either the f)laces or people that sur- 
rounded him. It was a handsome house. 
Whatever the eye rested upon, from the 
paintings on the walls to the rich carpets 
on the floors, betokened wealth. San- 
dy’s eyes brightened with pleasure as he 
glanced around. 

‘‘Do you like the house?” inquired 
Mr. Archer when they had reached the 
parlour, and had paused there for a 
moment’s rest. 

“ Like it ! Oh, Brother Philip, I 
never saw any place half so fine.” 

“ I am glad it pleases you,” said Mr. 
Archer, “ since it is to be your home for 
many a year to come, I hope, my boy.” 

When seated at dinner — a specially 
good dinner it was that day in honour 
of the occasion — Sandy said, somewhat 
abruptly, that it was almost time for him 
to be thinking of going to work. 


UP STAIRS AND DOWN. 


223 


« Work his sister exclaimed, with 
disapproval as well as surprise in her 
tone. “ Those thin white fingers of 
yours that have hardly strength to hold 
the knife and fork do not look much 
like work.” 

‘‘You may just put such a thought 
out of your mind at once, Sandy,” Mr. 
Archer said, firmly. “You belong to 
us now. Do you not think we are able 
to board and clothe you, my boy, with- 
out setting you to work for your living? 
To be sure,” he added, after a moment’s 
silence, “ I do not like to see a young 
fellow like you fold his hands in idle- 
ness. When you are quite strong again, 
and able to be about, I will see if I can 
find some light employment for you in 
my ofiice — enough to keep you out of 
mischief.” 

“Thank you,” replied Sandy; “ I see 
that you mean to be very kind to me, 
but I want to work hard — to earn 
money. I am a pretty good printer. I 


224 


SANDY CAMERON. 


would like to get employment in some 
printing-office if possible.” 

‘‘ It is dirty work, Sandy ; it is quite 
unnecessary for you to do anything of 
the sort — at least for the present. Why 
are you so anxious for money ?” 

Then Sandy unburdened his heart. 
He told his brother and sister of the 
lessons the Lord had been teaching him 
during the quiet days of his convales- 
cence. He told them the story of the 
horse-race and its effect upon him, and 
referred to his more recent deliverance 
from death, and said : 

“ Brother Philip and Sister Margaret, 
I don’t know how you look at it, but it 
seems to me a very plain matter that the 
very least I can do is to give the rest of 
my life to the Lord’s service.” 

These words had cost the reserved 
Sandy a great effort. His face flushed 
and his hands moved nervously. 

‘‘ I am glad you feel so,” said his sis- 
ter. “ That is the only way for a Chris- 


UP STAIRS AND DOWN. 


225 


tian to look at it. But I don’t see what 
your going to work as a printer has to 
do with your expression of gratitude.” 

So Sandy went on to tell his listeners 
what we already know — of the passive, 
selfish sort of religion he had possessed 
that received everything from God and 
enjoyed it without ever rendering back 
any service to the Giver ; that from that 
time forward he believed it his duty to 
make his Christianity something more 
than a pleasure to himself ; and that he 
saw the way clear to higher service, God 
helping him. 

‘‘ But what about the printing ?” again 
inquired Mrs. Archer. 

This led Sandy to speak fully of the 
plan which had lately matured in his 
mind. He wanted to work hard for a 
year or two, and to save his earnings. 
Then, by means of these and the 
assistance he knew was afforded in 
some institutions to poor students, he 
desired to prepare himself for the min- 

p 


226 


SANDY CAMERON. 


istry. When he was ready for labour, 
no doubt God would direct him to just 
the right place ; he would try and be 
satisfied with any work that was given 
him, whether in America, near his 
friends, or in some foreign land, among 
the heathen. 

“ A wild scheme !’’ said Mr. Archer, 
shaking his head. ‘‘ You can be a good, 
useful Christian without becoming a 
minister, to say nothing about being 
a missionary. Boys like you are full of 
romantic notions. When you get a few 
years older, you will be quite satisfied 
with the quiet, common-place duties of 
life, and will look at things differently 
from what you now do.’’ 

But, Brother Philip, your good pas- 
tor, Mr. Lane, is past the age of roman- 
tic notions. His actions show that he 
looks at things somewhat as I do ; and 
you do not think any less of him be- 
cause he is going out West as a mission- 
ary to the Indians, do you ?” 


UP STAIRS AND DOWN. 


227 


Ah ! but that is quite a different 
case.” 

‘‘Dear Philip,” said Mrs. Archer, 
gently, “ I fear your argument will not 
stand. Why is Mr. Lane’s a different 
case from our Sandy’s ? Both have re- 
ceived special mercies, both are led to 
dedicate their lives to the service of God 
in a special manner in order to prove 
their thankfulness. Why should we 
honour Mr. Lane for his devotion and 
discourage Sandy in just the very same 
thing?” 

The voice that asked the question was 
tremulous with feeling, and Sandy felt 
assured by its tone of his sister’s warm 
sympathy with the plan so dear to his 
heart. A glance of mutual understand- 
ing flashed between them, and Sandy’s 
hand caught and pressed hers eagerly. 

“Yes, I see, I see,” said Mr. Archer, 
good-humouredly. “ You two are plot- 
ting together, and it is of no use for me to 
offer any opposition. But if your heart 


228 


SANDY CAMERON. 


is set on studying for the ministry, San- 
dy, I will furnish the means. You need 
not work so hard to earn them. You 
can pay me back out of your savings 
from your first year’s salary,” he con- 
cluded, with a sly twinkle in his eye. 

‘‘ Thank you. Brother Philip,” said 
Sandy, not observing the twinkle, ‘‘ but 
I cannot accept your offer. I must earn 
the money myself. I cannot let you pay 
what is my debt. That would be too 
much like the children who put in the 
poor-box pennies that they have begged 
_ for the purpose from their parents. No ; 
let me have my own way in this.” 

The next day of note in Sandy Cam- 
eron’s life was that on which he was en- 
gaged as compositor by a certain print- 
ing firm in New York, and the first step 
thus taken toward the accomplishment 
of his life-work. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

A NIGHT’S STRUGGLE, 

INTER came on. Oh what a 
cold one it was ! Mr. Archer 
gave Sandy a nice overcoat ; his 
sister’s deft fingers wrought him 
a warm scarf and a pair of mittens ; but 
in spite of all these precautions he suf- 
fered greatly, and said some cross things 
against the climate of America. It was 
not comfortable to rouse up before day- 
light, hurrying on one’s clothes with 
numb fingers and chattering teeth, to 
eat a lonely breakfast and start away to 
work without a chance to exchange a 
word with anybody but the sour-faced 
servant, ill-pleased at having to prepare 
so early a meal. 

More than once Sandy wished that he 
had never left Scotland ; now and then 

20 229 



230 


SANDY CAMERON. 


the shadow of a regret crossed his mind 
that he had not accepted Mr. Archer’s 
kind ojfifer, and so have saved himself all 
this disagreeable work. It had been 
easy, in the peacefulness of his sick- 
room, to resolve to sacrifice his wishes 
and comfort, to lead a noble life, glori- 
fying God. It was far less easy to go on 
day after day, plodding away at a busi- 
ness he had never liked, having no time 
or strength left for social enjoyments, no 
opportunity for touching his pencils and 
colours, for reading, for anything pleas- 
ant. We all pass through an expe- 
rience somewhat akin to Sandy’s when 
on Sunday we sit down in the Lord’s 
house, our hearts softened by the charm 
of solemn music and more solemn words, 
our thoughts lifted for the hour quite 
beyond the level of their usual interest. 
And then we pass from Sunday’s rest to 
Monday’s duties and vexations, and find 
in the midst of petty temptations that 
we are not near so holy and strong 


A night’s struggle. 


231 


as we thought we were the day before. 
How humbling the discovery, but how 
good for us ! how good for Sandy ! 

One room of Mr. Archer’s house was 
fitted up as a library. This was the pet 
corner of both husband and wife, and 
its adornment was a matter of special 
interest to them, because it was the 
home-room of the house. There they 
passed their evenings when there was 
no company ; there the}^ held their 
family prayers, read together, and sang 
to the accompaniment of the organ that 
stood in a recess. Mrs. Archer’s house- 
plants filled the windows ; her canary 
birds sang above them ; the pleasantest 
pictures hung on the spaces of the wall 
that were not occupied by book-shelves. 
This apartment was the heart of the 
house, as the parlour was its face. Alas 
that so many d’VYellings are altogether 
face ! — that is, mere outside show for 
company’s sake, without any heart at 
all. 


232 


.SANDY CAMERON. 


Sandy grew very fond of this room, 
less for its general attractions than on 
account of a certain landscape that hung 
over the organ, the work of some emi- 
nent artist. He was never tired of 
standing before the picture and studying 
its details. Whenever the rest of the 
family spent an evening out or were de- 
tained in the parlour by company he 
did not care to meet, he was sure to be- 
take himself to the enjoyment of this 
favourite painting. At last he deter- 
mined to buy the necessary colours and 
make a small copy of it to hang in his 
own room. Not a word did he say 
about it to his friends, the quiet Scotch 
lad. They did not know that he spe- 
cially admired that painting, or indeed 
that he cared so much for pictures. It 
seemed a part of his nature to conceal 
his strongest feelings. Mr. and Mrs. 
Archer had never heard of his studies 
at the Royal Institution, nor of the 
struggle he had passed through in his 


A NIGHT^S STRUGGLE. 233 

choice of a vocation just because of his 
love of art. 

It was slow work copying the picture, 
as Sandy did at stolen moments — a half 
hour gained in the morning sometimes 
by early rising, when the house was 
still and he was safe from any intrusion, 
even of that of the housemaid with her 
broom ; an evening once or twice in the 
week when the others were out. But 
love conquers difficulties, and Sandy 
loved his art. However tired with his 
day’s work he might feel on his return 
from the printing-office, the fatigue was 
all forgotten when he took hold of his 
paint-brush. He was very careful to 
gather up his materials and hide them 
in a closet devoted to his use at the first 
sound of the door-bell, or any other 
signal that some one was coming, and all 
this precaution was not for shame of his 
occupation or fear of a lack of sympa- 
thy on the part of his sister and brother, 
but just because of that habit of reserve 
20 * 


234 


SANDY CAMEEON. 


that had grown in him as a part of his 
nature. 

The work was almost done; just a 
little bit of the foreground of the land- 
scape remained to be more elaborately^ 
touched up. An bourns labour would 
make the little copy of the beautiful 
picture complete, all ready for the nice 
frame that Sandy had ordered made, re- 
solving to walk to and from his work in- 
stead of riding in the cars, as he had 
previously done, and to forego every lit- 
tle indulgence, until he had saved enough 
to pay for it. Sandy was conscientious 
in the matter of keeping his earnings 
untouched, for he had devoted them 
toward the expense of his preparation 
for the ministry, and to take a dollar 
from that fund for anything else than 
something indispensable would have 
seemed to him a real theft. 

An invitation came to Mr. and Mrs. 
Archer to spend a certain evening with 
some friends in another part of the city. 


A night’s struggle. 


235 


The kind sister expressed regret that 
Sandy was not asked also. 

‘‘ It is only a company of middle- 
aged folks like us,” she said, “ but then 
you will have such a lonely time here 
at home.” 

“ Never mind that,” was Sandy’s an- 
swer ; “ I shall find enough to do ; I do 
not mind being by myself a while.” 

He wondered as he spoke, as he had 
done once or twice before, if it was not 
wrong in him to keep his innocent en- 
joyment so secret from the people who 
loved him best. “ But then,” he thought, 
‘‘ when Sister Maggie sees the painting 
framed and hanging in my room, it will 
be a pleasant surprise to her.” 

Sandy hurried home that night, and 
could scarcely eat his dinner for his 
eager haste to see Mr. and Mrs. Archer 
start off* and be able to get at his beloved 
work. They went at last, leaving him 
seated at the table in the library with a 
book in his hand, apparently settled for 


236 


SANDY CAMERQN. 


an evening’s study. But the instant the 
door closed behind them, he jumped 
from his seat and threw down the book. 
The next moment the gas was turned on, 
so that the room was brilliant ; the be- 
loved canvas brought out of its hiding- 
place, and the young artist was very 
soon entirely absorbed in his delightful 
work. There is a pleasant excitement 
in finishing anything, even if it be a very 
common-place article, but the joy of an 
artist, an author, a musician, over the 
final touches to some ‘‘ thing of beauty ” 
is happiness of an exquisite kind. 

The hours slipped on unheeded ; 
Sandy could not turn his eyes from the 
canvas long enough to look at the clock ; 
it never occurred to him that he had 
been working all day and ought to go to 
bed. At last the single word “ finished ” 
escaped his lips. He put down the 
brush, folded his arms, and stood before 
his picture, smiling at the successful re- 
production he had made of the great 


A night’s struggle. 


237 


artist’s work. He started nervously 
when a voice behind him said : 

Why, what does all this mean ? 
Not gone to bed yet, Sandy ? and where 
did you get a picture so much like — 
Why, it is a copy of our ‘ Scene in the 
Catskills.’ Sandy, how is this ?” 

When Mr. Archer had sufficiently 
recovered from his surprise, he exam- 
ing the newly finished picture carefully, 
and was astonished at the talent it 
showed. Late though it was, he insisted 
on having Sandy’s portfolio of sketches 
brought down for inspection, and drew 
by many questions an account from the 
modest young man of his previous training 
in the Loyal Institution, and an expres- 
sion of the desire he had so struggled 
against of gaining for himself a name 
among the landscape painters of his day. 

“ Is that really so, Sandy ?” questioned 
Mrs. Archer ; ‘‘ and yet you are deter- 
mined to set aside this strong wish and 
devote yourself to the ministry ? You 


238 


SANDY CAMERON. 


are a noble fellow. I just begin to see 
the sacrifice you are making.’’ 

“ He shall not do it, Margaret,” was 
the decisive comment of her husband, 
bringing his fist down on the table with 
a noise that startled the sleeping canaries 
in their cages. Then, turning to Sandy, 
he continued : I can see by your 

sketches that you have more than or- 
dinary talent. Now, my way of looking 
at the matter is this : when God gives a 
person a decided ability for any one 
thing, he means that person to improve 
and make use of it. Perhaps you have 
a gift for preaching the gospel ; that is 
not proyed yet ; but you have the gift of 
using your pencil skilfully, and I think 
you are altogether wrong to bury that 
evident talent out of sight, and bind 
yourself to a vocation in which you may 
have little success. I try to look at this 
matter as a Christian, but also in a 
practical, sensible manner.” 

Mr. Archer paused and looked at 


A night’s struggle. 


239 


Sandy, as if expecting a reply. The 
young man stood still with folded arms, 
gazing at his picture, and a cloud on his 
brow that betokened the inward tumult 
of emotions; but he was not ready to 
put them in words. His brother-in-law 
went on : 

“Listen to me. If you will give up 
your present scheme and devote yourself 
to painting as a profession, I will bear 
the expense of sending you to Italy for 
a couple of years, longer if necessary, for 
the completion of your artistic education, 
and on your return will do all that is in 
my power, by money and influence, to 
put you on the road to success. That is 
my offer. Do not answer at once, but 
think it over, and tell me your decision 
next week.’’ 

Before Sandy had time to utter a 
word, Mr. Archer turned, and beckoning 
to his wife, left the room. Sandy stood 
as if spell-bound, looking at his picture 
as if some word of wisdom might start 


240 


SANDY CAMERON. 


forth from the canvas to help him in his 
sore perplexity. As he gazed the col- 
ours seemed to fade and the beauty of 
the scene to pass away. It was no 
longer the innocent treasure that had 
hitherto been so dear to him, but the 
cause of a conflict between duty and 
desire whose sharpness already made 
him faint at heart — a conflict whose 
issues were to affect his whole life. He 
hastily seized the picture and dashed it 
into the closet with an emotion that was 
almost anger against that which until 
that hour he had handled so tenderly 
and lovingly. Then he turned off the 
gas and rushed up the stairs to his own 
room. His judgment told him that he 
must not allow himself to think any 
longer that night on the question Mr. 
Archer had put before him, at the risk 
of being unfit for his morrow’s duties. 
He knew that in such a state of mental 
excitement and bodily weariness he was 
unfit to deal fairly with a decision that 


A NIGHl’ S STRUGGLE. 


241 


involved so much. So he hurriedly un- 
dressed, and threw himself upon the 
bed. 

But thoughts are not such obedient 
servants as to retire the moment they 
are bidden ; indeed, the very fact that 
they are not wanted generally makes 
them more stubborn and resolute. So, 
with his head on his pillow, Sandy^s 
mind roamed amid scenes as distinct 
and various as if he had been walking 
through a gallery whose pictures por- 
trayed each a different subject. He saw 
himself in Italy, surrounded by those 
whose pursuits and aims were like his 
own, his whole time devoted to work 
that was not labour like that of the 
printing-office, but unqualified delight. 
He fancied himself engaged on a paint- 
ing that was to bring honour to him, and 
wealth, the congratulations of friends, 
the admiration of strangers. He saw 
himself living in luxury, yet so unspoiled 
by it that the poor and friendless looked 
21 Q 


242 


SANDY CAMERON. 


upon him as a benefactor, and his name 
spoken as that of a philanthropist, as 
well as a genius. With an effort his 
thoughts turned from this charming 
fancy, and represented to him Sandy 
Cameron, the theological student, toiling 
over his books from morning till night, 
stinting himself in every way possible, 
lest he should overstep his own means or 
the charity of the institution extended 
to poor fellows like himself, with little 
sympathy and no praise from those he 
loved best. Imagination went a step 
farther and showed him a minister in a 
humble parish, speaking the words of 
life to a few poor people who looked up 
to their pastor with respect, but who 
could neither appreciate his talents, if 
indeed he possessed them, nor repay his 
labours with a salary any more than 
barely sufficient to enable him to live. 
Another scene showed him a missionary, 
such as Mr. Lane had become, dwelling 
among a savage community, cut off from 


A night’s struggle. 


243 


all the sights and sounds of civilization, 
away from the comforts of home, the 
praises of friends, the incentive of pub- 
lic opinion, without any motive to stim- 
ulate his efforts but the consciousness of 
the approving eye of his Master and the 
benefit of the needy souls around him. 
These pictures varied and multiplied 
themselves in the mind of poor Sandy 
as he tossed about on the bed that brought 
him no repose ; and hour after hour went 
by, during which his head throbbed 
painfully and his body suffered from the 
unusual tax upon its endurance. 

Sandy had resolved to put off his de- 
cision. If he did not take care, the de- 
cision would come of itself, taking his 
power of choice away, for these imagina- 
tions put one series of pictures all in 
light, the other all in shade, and made 
that course far too tempting of which 
conscience disapproved. 

The poor perplexed heart did the 
only thing it could do for relief — that 


244 


SANDY CAMERON. 


whicli it should have done at the very 
outset : it carried its burden to the throne 
of grace, spread its questions out in 
order before the only One who has the 
power and the will to settle all difficulties 
in the path of his children. With his 
aching head buried in the pillows, Sandy 
spent the remaining hours of the night 
wrestling as Jacob did of old, but not 
with an angel of whom he sought a 
blessing. Sandy^s conflict was with a 
giant temptation against whose power he 
had no strength any more than had 
David when going out to encounter his 
giant. But God’s armoury is always 
full, and the weapons ever keen and 
bright and powerful and ready to do 
mighty work in the hands of the very 
weakest of his servants. Sandy found 
this true in his time of need. He rose 
at his usual hour next morning, exhaust- 
ed in body and mind like one who has 
just escaped with his life from a strug- 
gle hand to hand with a dangerous foe, 


A NIGHTS STRUGGLE. 


245 


but in his soul was the blessed calm 
that is God’s consolation to those who 
have conquered in the warfare between 
his will and their own wishes. 

When the family met at dinner that 
evening, Sandy, with many expressions 
of gratitude for his brother-in-law’s lib- 
eral offer, assured him that his mind was 
made up for his whole life, that God had 
made him see his duty so plainly that 
he could not mistake, and that hence- 
forth the art he loved so dearly could 
only be a means of recreation when worn 
out with higher and more satisfying 
labour. 

Mr. Archer looked disappointed, and 
said : 

‘‘ Then it is of no use to reason with 
you, I suppose ; but there are two ways 
of looking at the question of duty for 
one of your talents.” 

“Yes,” added his wife, “and God has 
opened our Sandy’s eyes to see the right 
way.” 
n* 


CHAPTER XIX. 


AN INTERVAL. 

WO more years of Sandy Came- 
ron’s life passed by ; slow and 
tedious years they were too, al- 
though the record of them is 
given in a few pen-strokes. Time never 
seems so long as when it stands between 
us and our hopes ; then it does not fly on 
wings, but limps on crutches. 

Immediately after the event told in 
our last chapter, Sandy called to see a 
minister — not Mr. Lane, for he was on 
the eve of departure to his new field of 
labour, but an earnest-hearted man who 
preached in the neighbourhood. Sandy 
had several times dropped in to hear 
Mr. Wilson on stormy Sunday evenings, 
or when he was too late to reach the 
church attended by the Archer family 

246 



AN INTERVAL. 


247 


in season, and he felt sure that no one 
would prove a safer spiritual guide than 
he. 

The good old minister heard Sandy’s 
story with ready sympathy, and seemed 
to know just what words of encourage- 
ment were fittest for his needs. After a 
talk with him, the young man wondered 
how he could for a moment have faltered 
in his decision, how he could for a mo- 
ment have doubted which vocation in 
life the Lord intended for him. Mr. 
Wilson gave him something besides good 
counsel. He was a practical man, and 
saw at once just the best thing to be 
done for Sandy. He offered him the 
use of his library, pointing out to him 
what books would be the most useful; 
and, better still, he urged him to renew 
his study of Latin and to commence 
Greek, promising to hear his recitations 
and do all that he could toward prepar- 
ing him for college. 

Then followed busy days for the young 


248 


SANDY CAMERON. 


student. Not an hour from early morn- 
ing till late bed-time but was occupied 
with work or study. During these two' 
years he learned how to redeem the time 
— a lesson of more value than all the 
Latin and Greek in the world. His 
book was always in his pocket, and at 
every odd moment out it came, and some 
bit was stored in his mind to be repeated 
to himself over and over while at work, 
eating his dinner, or walking home. 
Mr. Wilson was surprised at his pupiFs 
progress, and prophesied great things for 
him in the future. 

But Sandy’s success sprang not from 
any particular talent in acquiring dead 
languages, but from the one great mo- 
tive that led him on to do his utmost. 
He looked upon every recitation as a 
step nearer to the accomplishment of 
his aim ; it was not so much more 
Latin and Greek in his head, but so 
much added ability to understand the 
word of God, which he was some day to 


AN INTERVAL. 


249 


proclaim. Many pleasant hours did he 
pass in the pretty family-room, not in 
gazing at the Scene in the Catskills ’’ 
and dreaming of his own possible 
achievements with brush and canvas, 
but studying or reading with all his 
might. His sister sometimes complained, 
in a playful way, that she had no longer 
any one to talk with when her husband 
was out, to hold her skeins of wool, and 
to read aloud while she worked ; but the 
words were only a cover for the joy she 
felt in her young brother’s thorough ded- 
ication of himself to the Lord’s service. 

At last the time came when Sandy 
felt that he could no longer defer the 
beginning of his actual preparation for 
the ministry. He had laid by quite a 
sum of money as a result of his patient 
labour at the printing-office, and he 
thought that by taking a class in draw- 
ing, or in some other advisable way, he 
would he able to meet the expenses of 
his college life. 


250 


SANDY CAMERON. 


The way was prepared in an unex- 
pected manner. The morning on which 
he was to start off for the Western col- 
lege which he had decided upon enter- 
ing, Mr. Archer put in his hand a check 
for an amount that took away all anxiety 
for the immediate future, and promised 
to send him a similar one each year 
until he had completed his education. 
Sandy felt that his brother-in-law was 
truly generous in aiding him thus liber- 
ally in carrying out a plan which did 
not meet with his entire approval. To 
the last he said : 

‘‘ God made you an artist by nature, 
and I shall always think your choice of 
a profession a foolish one.” 

But Mrs. Archer said : 

“ Never mind, Sandy ; perhaps your 
brother Philip will some day come to 
look at things just as you and I do.” 


CHAPTEK XVI. * 

TWO LETTERS. 

HEEE is a quiet little village in 
one of the Middle States framed 
in hills and made beautiful by 
stately old trees. The houses are 
mostly of the poorer sort of country 
dwellings, and there is not a single 
structure in the place of sufficient merit 
to cause a traveller on the branch rail- 
way that passes through to give a second 
glance through the car window. The 
village is hardly known to people who 
live a hundred miles away, and I doubt 
if its name is mentioned in the gazetteer 
or on the map. There is a neat little 
church on the main street, approached by 
a path so well worn as to bear witness 
that the sacred edifice is not regarded 

251 



252 


SANDY CAMERON. 


merely as an ornament to the village, 
but ratlier a beloved resort for Sabbath 
services and weekly meetings for prayer. 

The building next to the church, sep- 
arated from it by a large and well-kept 
garden, is the parsonage. This house, 
like all the rest, is too simple in appear- 
ance to merit any special description — 
that is, for the outside. Let us, how- 
ever, take time to go in and pass through 
the rooms. First we will enter The par- 
lour, as befits us in the character of 
guests. It is vacant, for the day I have 
in mind for our introduction there is not 
one appointed for a parish reception nor 
a meeting of the sewing-society, nor yet 
for the young people to come together to 
practice the hymns for the next Sunday. 
The room is furnished simply ; evidently 
its owners are not rich nor fond of dis- 
play. At any rate, their idea is that the 
minister's parlour should not be so fine 
as to hinder the humblest of the flock 
from feeling at home there or occasion in 


TWO LETTERS. 


253 


any an impulse of envy. The chairs 
and sofa were meant for use,, not orna- 
ment; but glance up to the wall, and I 
think your eyes will rest there with 
pleasure. Pictures ! Why, there are 
many grand city houses that cannot boast 
half the value in works of art displayed 
on the w^alls of this poor country parson- 
age. All are not framed, but you do not 
stop to think about that, for, like valua- 
ble jewels, their worth is quite independ- 
ent of the setting. Most of them are 
landscapes, and you seem to breathe the 
fresh strong air of the mountains as you 
gaze far into that scene displayed over 
the mantel ; you expect to see the re- 
flected radiance of sunset clouds filling 
the apartment as you turn from the rich 
colouring of that sky in the next view. 
In one corner hangs a small picture that 
has a familiar look about it. The work- 
manship has a little stiffness and imma- 
turity ; there is talent displayed in the 
execution, but it has not the ripeness and 
22 


254 


SANDY CAMERON. 


fulness indicated by the others. It is a 
scene in the Catskill Mountains. You 
have heard of that before. It is, of all 
the artist minister's possessions, the most 
highly prized, because so intimately as- 
sociated in^his memory with an import- 
ant era of his life. We know all about 
it. We do not need to be told that this 
is the residence of the Rev. Alexander 
Cameron. 

Behind the parlour is the sitting-room. 
We do not need to knock for admission 
there, for two rosy-faced boys, one with 
bright curls which admiring friends term 
auburn, are pushing the door wide open 
to let their mimic train of cars pass 
through. A lady sits at one window 
with a work-basket beside her and a 
cutting-board on her lap. Her thoughts 
are entirely occupied with the perplexity 
of remodelling a pair of old long panta- 
loons into a pair of new short ones. We 
shall not disturb her at all ; for even if 
she is aware of our presence, it will be 


TWO LETTERS. 


255 


only a pleasant surprise to meet with 
her husband’s old friends. 

A door opposite stands open. Let us 
take a look in the minister’s study. 
There are shelves on all sides well 
filled with books ; dictionaries and com- 
mentaries and dry-looking treatises on 
learned subjects, unattractive, all of them, 
and not worth borrowing to read, you 
will think. No ; the study, even more 
than the rest of the house, is furnished 
for use rather than beauty, and these 
books are the helps in some measure to 
the utterances of the fervent, soul-stirring 
sermons which every Sunday command 
silent attention from the worshippers in 
the little church close by ; only in some 
measure, though, for by far the most ef- 
fective of Sandy’s hours of pulpit prep- 
aration are those he passes walking up 
and down the fioor with his mother’s 
well-worn Bible in his hand, or else 
upon his knees. Just now he is not 
preparing a sermon. He sits at the 


256 


SANDY CAMERON. 


desk writing rapidly, and now and then 
glancing at an open letter beside him. 
There is a smile on his face that deepens 
as he goes on writing — a smile that in- 
dicates not the mere amusement of a 
moment, but a settled habit of content- 
ment. To understand the present cause 
thereof, we must look over his shoulder 
and read the open letter and the answer 
he has just about completed. The hand- 
writing of the former is evidently that 
of a lady, and the sheet is headed — 

“ London, Sept., — 

“ Dear Uncle Sandy : It was only 
the other day that I discovered where 
you had hidden yourself, and then it 
was by accident. A gentleman dined 
with us who had just returned from 
an American tour. He knew that 
mother’s maiden name was Cameron, 
and inquired if I had any relations of 
that name in the United States. I men- 
tioned you, of course, but said that I 
had not heard from you since you were 


TWO LETTERS. 


257 


a student at theological seminary, 

and knew nothing whatever about you. 
‘But I do,’ said my friend. Then he 
told us of a special journey he had taken 
by rail, starting from a certain town on 
Friday, and expecting to reach another 
town (excuse me from trying to spell 
your queer American names) on Satur- 
day. 

“ But the distances over there, he 
says, are such as an Englishman cannot 
comprehend. He found that he could 
not reach his destination until Sunday 
morning ; and rather than spend an 
hour of that day in travelling, he stopped 
at a small station on the road. There 
he attended service morning and even- 
ing, and in that little out-of-the-way 
village he heard, as he says, two of the 
finest discourses he ever listened to. 
The preacher’s name was Cameron. 
‘ Alexander ?’ I inquired ; ‘ and was he 
a homely fellow, with red hair and a 
little of the Scotch brogue in his voice ?’ 

22 ^ R 


258 


SANDY CAMEEON. 


‘ Yes/ replied the gentleman. Then* I 
knew that the eloquent preacher must be 
none other than my dear old uncle 
Sandy, and I resolved forthwith to write 
him a letter. 

First of all, I shall scold ; you used 
to scold me often enough when I was 
that wild little girl that visited Edin- 
burgh, and was always getting your 
grave self into trouble. Do you remem- 
ber the fun we had once emptying that 
money-box of yours and getting a treat 
with its contents ? Well, to my scolding. 
What does it mean that you, who ought 
by this time to have become a famous 
artist, have settled down in some wilder- 
ness sort of place to preach to a handful 
of ignorant savages ? The very idea 
vexes me, Sandy Cameron. Why, I 
doubt if you are able to afford your 
wife a new dress oftener than once a 
year, or ever think of such an extrava- 
gance as giving a dinner-party. In fact, 
you wt)uld not have anybody fit to invite 


TWO LETTERS. 


259 


within a hundred miles if you did. Oh, 
Sandy, just think of what you might 
have been if only you had come to Lon- 
don when mother wished it, and cul- 
tivated your special talent! I suppose 
you acted as you thought best, but I 
must say I think you have thrown your- 
self away. 

Now I must tell you something about 
myself, believing that you still retain 
sufficient interest in your naughty niece 
Jessie to care to hear. Most of the 
time that you have spent studying at the 
seminary and drudging away among 
those uncivilized country people, mother 
and I have enjoyed in travelling on the 
Continent. We spent one year in Ger- 
many, another in Italy, and so on. We 
generally stopped longest where we 
found good English society. Poor 
mother got tired sometimes, and wanted 
to come back to London and settle down. 
But I don’t believe at all in ‘settling 
down,’ and I would not let her. 


260 


SANDY CAMERON. 


“ At Paris last year we met Monsieur 
le Mot. He is a handsome man, dances 
charmingly, and is quite wealthy. Three 
months ago we were married, and I am 
the happiest woman in England. Not 
that we intend to settle down here ; 
it is far too dull to suit Emile and me ; 
but just now we stay to please mother. 

will not go on telling you how 
pleasantly my life passes. It would be 
too unkind to show you the contrast be- 
tween our round of gayeties and luxuri- 
ous style of living and your own dull, 
plodding existence. Emile and I feel so 
sorry for you. We wish you could 
bring your family over here and visit us. 
Maybe we could still induce you to be 
sensible and devote your talents to some 
pursuit worthy of them. At any rate, 
you must write to me at once, and tell 
me all about yourself and your wife. I 
wonder what sort of a wife you have 
chosen ? Is she pretty, stylish, and 
witty? Emile joins me in sending kind 


TWO LETTERS. 


261 


messages to her as well as to yourself ; 
and here I pause. 

“Your affectionate niece, 

“ Jessie le Mot.” 

The reply to this epistle ran as follows : 


“ Parsonage, Nov. — 

“ My dear Jessie : It has given me 
real pleasure to hear from you again, to 
know that your life is so prosperous, and 
thut you are happy. I might indeed 
say that I wish that the prosperity had 
turned your heart to seek more enduring 
treasures, and that the happiness rested 
on a surer foundation than wealth and 
society. But if I did, you would perhaps 
bid me save my sermons for my own 
congregation, and put aside my letter in 
disgust. 

“ I remember perfectly the friend 
whose accidental presence in our village 
one Sunday has brought about the re- 
newal of our correspondence. If my 


262 


SANDY CAMERON. 


discourses were of any benefit to him, I 
am thankful ; but if it was his report of 
me and my circumstances that moves 
you to such expressions of regret on my 
account, I must say that he did not see 
things in their true light. I do not live 
in the wilderness nor preach to ignorant 
savages, but I must confess that my 
wife’s new dresses are few in number, 
and that we are not in the habit of giv- 
ing dinner-parties. I do not, however, 
agree with you in thinking that my 
talents are thrown away. I believe that 
in trying to lead wandering souls heaven- 
ward I am doing something much more 
worth the doing than the painting of 
pictures which should render my name 
famous. But as we do not look at such 
things in the same way, it is useless to 
talk about them. 

‘‘ You ask if my wife is pretty. Well, 
I send you her photograph that you may 
judge, and also ask you to read the 
thirty-first chapter of Proverbs, which 


TWO LETTERS. 


203 


describes her more fitly than I arn able 
to do. I thank you, Jessie, for all the 
regrets you express on my account, since 
I know they are sincere and affectionate ; 
but if I had my life to live over again, 
the only difference I would make in it 
would be to place some years earlier the 
decision to devote whatever talents the 
Lord had blessed me with to his service 
as a minister. 

“ Present my regards to your husband, 
and thank him for the interest you have 
led him to feel in your distant uncle. I 
doubt if we shall ever meet, for it does 
not enter into my plans to make a jour- 
ney back to England ; but in closing my 
letter I wish to express the hope that 
both you and he may ere long become 
convinced that true happiness is only to 
be found in the dedication of heart and 
life and wealth to God our Saviour. 

-“ With cordial affection, 

“Your uncle, 

“Sandy Cameron.’’ 


CHAPTER XXI. 


IN CONCLUSION 

HERE are certain ingenious little 
pictures — it may be you have 
seen them — which, looked at in 
one way, present perhaps a 
group of trees, perhaps a ruined castle. 
Turn these around, study them atten- 
tively, and presently a picture entirely 
different from the first appears before you. 
The very lines that formed the ruined 
castle or the group of trees resolve 
themselves into new meaning, and you see 
instead of these 'the outline of a face or 
a house, and are puzzled to know where 
the first scene has vanished. What is 
the secret ? Why, only this : the trees, 
the face, the old castle, the house, come 
singly before your eyes, and you can 

264 



IN CONCLUSION. 


265 


only see one object at a time, although 
they are artfully combined in the pic- 
ture. Which of them appears before you 
depends altogether on the way you hole 
at it. 

We have followed the fortunes of our 
hero through the most important years 
of his lifq. We have seen both what he 
did become and what he might have 
been, and have learned the judgment of 
his various friends upon the events and 
actions that marked his career. Do we 
agree with Mr. Cameron’s neighbour, in 
regard to his escape at the horse-race, 
that it only proved the boy’s presence 
of mind ? or, with Sandy, do we see in 
his preservation the merciful hand of 
God stretched out to protect his child ? 
Do we perceive in his later deliverance 
from the ship-wreck a second indication 
that his doubly saved life belonged in a 
special manner to God, to be spent in 
his service ? or do we, like Mr. Archer, 
think he would have been wiser to cul- 


23 


2G6 


SANDY CAMERON. 


tivate his talent and become a great 
painter ? Do we, with Jessie, regret 
that he missed so many of this world’s 
pleasures by spending the prime of his 
life in a poor little village, away from 
gay society and popular applause ? or do 
we consider, as he did, that in bringing 
many to righteousness he had chosen a 
better portion ? 

But there are questions more import- 
ant to us than these in regard to Sandy. 
How do we look at our own lives, our 
talents, the providence of God toward 
our own selves ? Ah ! there are so many 
ways in which we can view the same ob- 
ject! Out of a dozen people, perhaps 
no two will see a thing in just the same 
way. The only safe rule is to view every 
matter in which we are concerned through 
the magnifying-glass of prayer and the 
study of the Bible, and thus to see it some- 
what as God himself regards it. I think, 
if Sandy could talk with you in person 
on the subject, he would say, ‘‘ Every 


IN CX)NCLUSION. 


267 


pleasure and disappointment, trial and 
opportunity, will surely make us stronger 
and nobler Christians, or else weaker 
and more worldly-minded, just according 
to the way in which we look at it^ 







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